Because of You
by Dunno12345
Summary: Bellamy Blake is the school's infamous blackguard, reputed for his bad attitude and disagreeable behavior. He's worlds different from Clarke Griffin-the Honor Roll Student and pre-med hopeful of Arkadia High. How exactly will these two see eye-to-eye in this fanfiction based off CW's televised version of the 100?
1. Introduction

**Hello! So this is kind of an experiment of mine I'm doing for writing practice; taking original characters and putting them into another setting. Usually I don't like doing this myself. I like the characters to stay in their element or something close to it, but . . . I caved. When I say this is inspired by Ten Things I Hate About You, I mean loosely. It's got a darker spin-less humor, but the similar dynamic between the two characters (which was already in place in the TV show which is why I found this fitting). First part is just testing the waters I guess**. **Reviews are appreciated.**


	2. Prologue

There are ten pints of blood in the adult body. Ten pints.

One pint was spilling out from under his body, painting the cement around us a deep crimson. Another was coating the front of my shirt, but a person could survive on eight pints. They could even survive on seven, which was running down the sides of his abdomen in brilliant ribbons of red, like a package crudely ripped opened.

But not six.

Six pints meant death, and it had already begun to drain beneath my hands, squelching between my fingers and soaking his upper torso. I wished he'd worn something other than white.

"You're not dying, okay?" I told him. It was an order and I injected as much conviction as I could into my voice which wasn't very much. But that was okay; I could lie well enough. Doctors always had to, just as much with their words as their faces. Maybe even more so. They wanted to break it to the families with ease, not let something like the set of their lips give it away.

I went over what I knew to keep myself from that, from letting my feelings bleed into my expression. His partially distended abdomen was an indication of internal bleeding; pulse was fading fast. Six pints six pints six pints.

I took a shaky breath. "You'll be fine," I said, my voice feeling misplaced somewhere in my throat, like it took a wrong turn. It came out strained and broken.

I pressed my hands down harder over the wound, ignoring the convulsion that ran through his body. I stared into his face, eyelashes casting shadows onto his cheekbones, his unruly dark hair framing around his head like a halo. I tried to hear past his painful gasps.

"You're okay," I said again. It came out louder than I intended, as if I was making a bargain with God. "The ambulance is on its way."

He let out a chokes sound, haggard and garbled. Blood bubbled up his throat, staining his lips an awful scarlet. But I still told myself he'd be fine. He had to be. There was no other option.

His eyes suddenly fluttered open and I found myself looking into liquid brown. There was a resolve in them, like he'd made peace with something I couldn't see. There was a goodbye in those eyes and his hand latched onto mine. He squeezed.

But I wasn't ready. "No." I shook my head adamantly. "No, you're not dying on me, okay?" It was a beg this time, but I didn't care. I'd beg for him. I'd beg the world for him. "I need you to fight. Please, _please_. Do it for me. Fight for _me_!"

His eyes stayed on mine for another moment, clear. Beautiful. Then they drifted to the stars above my shoulder.

They glazed over, and his grip went slack.


	3. One Saturday Night

**Don't worry, Guys; I'm still finishing the other fanfiction. I'm just writing this when I feel like writing and am stuck on everything else. Oh, and when I say "inspired by" the film, I mean it very loosely. The relationship and the setting is similar . . . that's pretty much it.**

 _Three weeks earlier_ . . .

I had a theory I was the only person ever to bring reading material to a party. This thesis of mine seemed to be supported by the throng of teenagers surrounding me, holding not books, but plastic cups full of beer and other illegal substances that had no business being in the hands of minors.

But of course, if I said anything of that nature to them, I was in danger of having both myself and my medical textbook kicked out from Tyler Simone's household. It was only made worse by the fact that technically, I wasn't even supposed to be here. Future juvenile delinquents didn't exactly jump at the chance to invite the school's top Honor Roll student to their contraband extravaganza and my friend had, quite literally, smuggled me in.

For whose benefit though, I couldn't say.

"You need to socialize more," Thalia had chided me earlier, going into full-fledged lecture mode. She'd strode back and forth in my room, like she was a lawyer making her case to a jury. "Next year you'll be off to med school and then you'll become an intern and any life outside of work will sputter out and die. Have you ever _seen_ Grey's Anatomy?"

Actually I had. I'd spent my tween years watching it with my parents, listening intently to my mom as she'd point out every error in their surgical procedures. It always took nearly two hours to make it through a single episode. A painful throb resonated deep within my chest.

"Even better," I'd said. "Then I won't know what I'm missing."

Thalia had shaken her head, black curls flying around her round cheeks. Her lips puckered in clear distaste. "No. You're really big on experiences, right? Well, consider Tyler's party an experience. An experience of fun. Partake in the fun."

I'd just grimaced. "You know fun is a subjective term, don't you? If we were participating in _my_ definition of fun, we'd be ankle-deep in recreational reading or watching pulmonary bypass procedures on Youtube."

Thalia stared at me, her big brown eyes widened in horror. She'd clasped my hand tightly in hers. "Clarke, You _need_ this night. For the both of our sake's. "

"Aren't you forgetting one important detail? I wasn't invited."

But it had been like she hadn't heard me. "Please, I'm sure the _and guest_ was implied. But, if you're worried about it . . . " She darted over to my dresser and for a second, I thought she was looking for something provocative. If that were the case, she'd be looking for awhile. But to my relief, Thalia just pulled out a light-blue hoodie. She'd tossed it at me. "Problem solved. Wear that and we'll just go in the back door."

Which currently left me lounging on the couch, dawned in puffy, wash-worn clothing while every other girl was dressed to the bare-minimum. Or most. Frankly, I judged these people for having not recognized me yet. If not my modesty, I would've at least expected someone to catch the textbook occupying my lap.

But no. The students of Arkadia High were far more preoccupied with their misdemeanors to pay me any mind. Which probably worked in my favor.

I tried to focus on the small text on enzymes but the pounding music and the sour tang of beer made it hard to concentrate. I dog-eared the page and retrieved my phone from my back-pocket instead.

A grain of disappointment settled inside me.

No new messages.

I'd hoped Finn would've texted me by this point. He'd left yesterday morning to tour a few Washington campuses. He had a passion for electrical engineering and a few schools there had some good programs he'd been interested in for the months. Finn's drive was similar to my own, serious and undeterred. It's what ultimately made us a compatible couple for the last year and a half; we understood each other's dreams and-more importantly-encouraged them.

I'd texted him this afternoon, but sent another one asking how it was going just in case the first didn't go through. With that done, I stood up and maneuvered through the thick band of people, choking the living room and congesting the kitchen. Some dub-step song blared in my ears.

I reached the back door and pushed my way through, into the cool October air. I turned-

And collided against something hard.

The textbook was knocked from my hands and it dropped, landing with a heavy thud on the bricked patio. I looked up.

Big eyes under a set of long lashes greeted me. Tousled, curly-brown hair crowned his head. Black jacket over a dark tee. His lips were sewn into a perpetual smirk, sardonic and uninviting.

I swallowed, my annoyance from the party instantly piquing.

Bellamy Blake. Arkadia's knight in coal-black armor.

He'd earned the title of B4, not because he was partial to bingo, but because of his badboy tag that formed a nice alliteration when tethered to his name. Girls here found him swoon-worthy and, I quote, "mysterious." The guys however, thought him intimidating and, to some degree, a little frightening, accentuated by the silver Yamaha bike and the fact Bellamy was the only person here that could legally drink. He'd been held back, but I'd caught enough about him through the rest of the school to know that that wasn't because he'd flunked classes.

I'd snagged the fragmented words, "foster care" exchanged behind his back, consistent enough for it to probably be true. It made sense with what else I knew of him; that he'd moved around a lot as a kid. But why he chose to stay in high school and stick it out was beyond me; he didn't exactly strike me as the type serious about grades.

His dark eyes fell to the textbook and scanned the title. He looked back to me, head tilted slightly to the side. "Catching up on some light reading?" he asked, voice husky. There was a gruff edge to it, the kind you'd catch in a singer's tone, or in the voice of someone who just really liked to talk.

"Sort of," I muttered. I bent down and retrieved the book, glad it wasn't bent. I tucked my arms around it, cradling the cover to my chest.

"I don't know what's more surprising," Bellamy mused, "Seeing a medical textbook at a party or seeing the Princess _with_ a medical textbook at a party."

I glared. While he was known as B4 and a myriad of other terms I wouldn't grace with acknowledgement, I was commonly referred to as the Princess of Arkadia.

I definitely didn't come up with the name-I wouldn't. It made a fair majority of the girls cast withering glares my way, like my A's on papers outright offended them. So I wanted to use my brain for the greater good; it was hardly something deserving of the title "Princess." In fact, it was a little degrading.

I shoved my tongue in my cheek to keep from saying what I wanted to. "I'm not here by choice," I told him. "Just for a friend."

He appraised me, that smirk of his deepening as he took in my attire. "I can see you really put in an effort."

Irritation threatened to leak into my voice. "I think what you were going for there was an apology for running into me," I said. "But I'll make that attempt easier for you by just skipping to the thanks." _And then walking away,_ I mentally added.

But I had no such luck.

"You were the one who was in such a hurry. What, leaving because you're feeling a bit underdressed?"

My eyes narrowed. _"_ O _ver_ dressed, more like it. And that's not exactly something I'm in any sort of hurry to rectify."

That curve of his lips turned into a tantalizing smile and I suddenly felt like a little kid being chastised by their parent. "Right," he nodded appreciatively. "Sorry, I forgot the Princess can't have her ankles showing."

"What is your problem?" I asked, now thoroughly pissed off by his attitude. Or maybe it was just his personality. "Have I offended you in some way?"

Bellamy scoffed, a throaty chuckle that reverberated deep inside his chest. "Don't flatter yourself. I just hate people who think the world revolves around them."

My lips actually parted in shock, jaw dropping open. I should've just let it go. That's what people with better self-control would do. A person who aspired to be a doctor had to know restraint. It was one of the primary fundamentals to being a good doctor.

But I wasn't a doctor yet.

"Are you actually insinuating that I'm arrogant because I give a crap about my grades?" I asked, staring at him in disgust. "That name was what the school came up with. You know, by the students who see only four years in front of them and care only about their social status in each one." I clenched my hands around my textbook, so hard until the edges bit into my palms. "I study because I want to make something of myself. Something important. So if I'm called a princess for that, fine. But just remember that when I have my scholarship handed to me, you'll be here, living it up at a party thrown by teenagers."

That smirk wasn't as perpetual as it seemed, because it instantly dropped from his lips. His dark eyes grew cold, russet-brown eyes growing dark as ash. "You don't know anything about me. Don't make the mistake of thinking you do."

And with one last contemptuous glance at me, Bellamy turned to the darkening street and stalked away.

I stood there for a good minute or so, letting the anger drain from me. I didn't want to take it out on Thalia, who I was off to find once that minute ended.

I'd tried the kind of fun that existed in her world. Now it was time for me to return to mine.


	4. New Girl

My locker was crammed with books. Thick stacks of textbook threatened to spill down and onto the floor, but I managed to wrestle out my AP Gov. book and slam my locker shut without causing an academic avalanche. I shoved it in my bag.

"Some girls have makeup in their locker, some have food or a spare coat. But Clarke Griffin . . . Clark Griffin has extra curriculum," Thalia quipped beside me. Today she wore a long, purple skirt that ended where her tan boots began. Her dark hair was pulled back into a high ponytail and the Guns and Roses logo I knew would be on her shirt was obscured by her jean jacket.

Compared to my torn jeans and unbrushed blonde hair, she looked like a rock version of Tinker Bell.

I scoffed. "Who needs an extra coat in Wyoming when you can have Basic Pathology?"

Thalia wrinkled her nose at that, but waved me off. She swept by me, a light skip in her steps. "Looks like Finn's got some competition." She cast a small wave over her shoulder. "I'll catch ya' at lunch," she told me before disappearing around the bend.

I sighed before turning in the opposite direction. I was halfway to my class when Principal Jaha stopped me in my tracks. It was a little hard for him not to; he was an imposing man, skin the color of ebony, his stern face devoid of any laugh lines that suggested he had little reason to smile.

A girl was at his side, her brunette hair brushed to one shoulder. Judging by her round face and height, she couldn't have been older than a sophomore.

Principal Jaha came to a halt in front of me, smirking like he was trying for that smile. "Clarke," he greeted me, dark eyes locking on mine from behind frameless glasses. He turned to the girl at his side. "This is Clarke Griffin," he told her, "One of our most prized students."

I tried not to squirm at that. Praise wasn't something I was comfortable with and the way he said it made me feel like I was a possession of the school's. Just because I buckled down and studied didn't mean I was something prized. Stubborn, maybe. But not prized.

I smiled at the girl. "Hi."

"This is Octavia, our newest addition to Arkadia High, " Principal Jaha continued, "And I was hoping, Clarke, that you wouldn't mind being her tour guide."

Well, it wasn't like I could say no. The halls were practically empty and "new students" was synonymous to new meat for a fair majority of girls looking for betas and guys looking to score.

I nodded. "Sure. Do you have your class schedule?"

Principal Jaha patted me on the shoulder. "Then I'll leave you to it." He headed back down the way he'd come and the girl-Octavia-handed me a folded piece of paper. I scanned over her name:

 _Octavia B._

"I see you're a freshman," I said, almost sadly. She wasn't just new to this school, she was new to high school. I was instantly grateful that I didn't leave her touring to someone else.

I smiled warmly at her. "English is this way," I said, starting down the now-vacant hallway. She stayed at my side, looking around the school like she was trying to memorize it. "Are you from out of town?" I asked. "Or just transferring from middle?"

Her blue eyes fixed back on me. "A bit of both. I lived here when I was younger but only . . . came back a few years ago." It was ambivalent, the way she said it and I caught a flash of something in her eyes, something I couldn't place the name of.

I made a sound of acknowledgement, not wanting to pry. I decided to switch topics. "So do you like it? Cheyenne?"

Octavia hefted her bag strap higher on her shoulder. "Yeah. Yeah, it's . . . okay. I mean if you like trees."

That got a smile out of me and we made a sharp turn at the end of the hall. "Did you know we have a state dinosaur?" I inexplicably chose to mention. I'd read somewhere that facts helped to quiet someone's anxiety by distraction. "And during the 1880's, we were the wealthiest city in the country? Even one of those Rocky films was shot in Jackson Hole."

Octavia looked at me with a mix of amusement and confusion, like she was trying to find something nice to say. "No," she seemed to settle on. "I didn't know that. Interesting."

It was evident that article was wrong.

But that didn't matter anymore. Already we were coming up to her first class and I stopped at the door. "Here's Honors English," I said, handing her back the schedule. "I'm on the other side of the building, but I'll just meet you here next period."

She shook her head quickly. "You don't have to do that. I have a-"

But I just held up a hand. "It's no big deal. Besides, I get the same free period as you. Then I can show you the rest of the place."

 _Plus_ , I thought to myself, _Jaha asked me to be the one to do it._ I may not have liked the praise, but that didn't mean I was willing to pull out of what I'd already agreed to do. At least I'd have another chance to improve my bedside mannerisms. It was clearly needed.

Octavia looked dubious but she acquiesced. "Then I guess I'll see you after."

I smiled again and waited until the door closed behind her before picking up my pace and running unceremoniously to my own class.

* * *

Government lagged more than usual. It wasn't my favorite class, but it was beneficial. Yet that didn't make the lecture on cultural comparisons any more enthralling. It actually made me eager to leave and when the bell finally tolled, I exited faster than usual.

Octavia was waiting in the hall outside the door just as we'd agreed, her back to the window. Morning light streamed in, casting a long white patch onto the floor.

She caught sight of me and I waved her over. "So how was it?" I asked with enough enthusiasm to sound friendly but not creepy. _Mannerisms,_ I reminded myself.

Octavia was looking around in that way again, craning her neck to see over the flood of people. "Oh, it was . . . fine," she said distractedly. "This school is a lot bigger than my old one."

"Which one did you attend?"

I swore, her eyes lowered at the question and she refocused on me. She suddenly grew hesitant. "Um, Walden."

It took me a second to make the connection and I forced my expression to remain neutral once I had.

Walden was _that_ school, kept in such poor running shape that it was currently down in attendance by fifty percent. I remembered passing by that very school when I was younger, praying my Dad wouldn't send me there. It looked like something out of a war story; a great big box with stained, grey walls. The fence around it didn't make it any more appealing and on the night before I started middle school I even dreamed of myself on the other side of that gate, begging my Mom to come and save me.

But maybe that was all just misleading and the place was better on the inside.

"Did you like it there?"

Octavia gave me an incredulous look, one that confirmed it wasn't that misleading after all. At least now I could say with confidence, "I think you'll like it here. It's a good school."

She nodded and her gaze drifted around us again, as I we passed through the cafeteria and up a flight of stairs to the second floor. She looked out over the railings.

"Who're you looking for?" I finally asked.

Octavia looked sidelong at me and I read the uncertainty in her expression, in that worry line between the brows. "I think I'll let him find me. I don't want to be that kid just hanging around, you know?"

I didn't like that implication in her words. "Older boyfriend?" I asked, ignoring the urge to sit her down and discuss in monotone why older boyfriends in high school were a very bad idea. Not only from an emotional standpoint, but older guys were usually the worse kind. They were more experienced and, frankly, were more likely to use young girls to their own advantage.

But I didn't say any of that, especially when her face suddenly crumpled in disgust. She shook her head. "Oh, no. No, definitely not . . . that." She laughed. "It's just my-"

"O?"

For a blissful moment, I was completely ignorant of the man standing somewhere behind me. Then I turned around and my mouth popped open.

Black jacket. Brooding eyes. Arrogant voice.

Bellamy Blake was looking at Octavia and I honestly didn't recognize him for a second, not with the way he was smiling at her. A _real_ smile. Not a smirk, nothing even close to mockery. It was a genuine grin that split across his face, showing both rows of teeth.

Octavia apparently reciprocated the feeling because she was smiling too and was near enough now to close the gap between them. She wrapped her arms around his neck while I stood off to the side, feeling both intrusive and very uncomfortable.

Only when they broke apart did Bellamy take notice of me. That smile wavered as his gaze found mine. It darkened like a brewing storm.

Octavia turned back to me, still grinning like she'd just received the world in the form of a six-foot degenerate. "Clarke," she said in a breathy voice, "this is my brother."


	5. Danny Boy

It was things like this that belied any theory of coincidence. Coincidence was that word inserted when such different roads inexplicably crossed paths. It was that term used to negate the phrase that everything happened for a reason.

And from my point of view, the word coincidence was comically insufficient.

I looked between Octavia and Bellamy. "Your brother?"

That storm in his dark eyes didn't blow over. "What's she doing here?" he asked with a flippant wave in my direction.

The smile on Octavia's lips slowly fell away as she looked between us, clearly sensing the hostile atmosphere. "She's my tour guide."

This did nothing to pacify him. "I could've shown you around myself. You didn't need her."

I folded my arms over my chest. "You don't have to talk like I'm not here."

Bellamy looked from his sister back to me. "Why are you?" he sneered. "Don't you have some prestigious class to be getting to by now?"

I ignored the jab, keeping any remarks to myself for Octavia's sake. "Actually, no. I was going to show your sister around the school."

His next words came out as a snap. "I'll do that."

Octavia peered up at her brother. "Is this your free period, Bell?"

It wasn't, I knew, but I let Bellamy answer. He grimaced and gave a one-shouldered shrug, unconcerned. "I can miss one class."

"Oh yeah, that sets a great example." The words were out of my mouth before I could hold them in and I instantly clamped my lips shut.

Bellamy's glare actually emanated its own heat, but Octavia interceded before he had a chance to speak. "No, it's fine. Clarke can show me around. She knows a lot about . . . Wyoming."

I smiled at that, but Bellamy didn't partake in my amusement. Instead he glowered at me like he was waiting for me to crack under pressure. But, unbeknownst to him, pressure was a close friend of mine. "I can afford one class, O," he said.

But Octavia didn't agree. "No way. I won't have you ruining your perfect record on my behalf." She pointed towards the hall. "Now go."

She wasn't pointing in the right direction, but it was clear she wasn't backing from her stance and Bellamy eventually complied. Not without another glare at me though. He started my way, heading for the opposite hall. He stopped before passing me.

His voice turned to a whisper, low enough for only me to hear. "My sister is not another one of your subjects, Princess."

I clenched my hands but said nothing, allowing him to leave without another word. He wasn't worth the stress response. Only when he was gone did I let myself relax.

"Wow," Octavia mumbled from beside me as we started walking. "He obviously woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."

That seemed to be every morning. "Your brother doesn't exactly like me," I mumbled.

She scoffed, kicking at the floor with her heel. "My brother doesn't like anyone."

"What, he doesn't have friends to practice civility on?" I hoped she didn't take offense at that but Octavia just shook her head."Nope. None that I've ever seen him with. He hasn't really had much of a chance to make any."

I frowned at that, saddened by the thought. It didn't justify his bitterness, but it did at least explain some of it. "Was that because of the moving?" I asked gently.

Octavia looked over at me. "You mean foster care?" She deadpanned. "Yeah. He moved around more than me, though. The system didn't always keep us together."

I actually came to a complete stop at that, and turned fully to her. "They split you up?"

"Yeah. It was only for a year, but it wasn't . . . " her eyes grew unfocused for a second. "It wasn't easy. The family I was with didn't want a teenager and agreed to keep me until freshman year. Then I was sent to my brother's last family who lives here in Cheyenne."

"Why didn't your brother just get custody of you?" Now I knew I was prying, but I couldn't help it. None of it sounded fair. It didn't seem right.

If it annoyed Octavia, she gave no indication of it and we resumed our pace. "A job at Taco Bell wasn't exactly enough to support the both of us. He failed his GED so he decided to go back to school. He wanted to try for a scholarship to UW."

"And?"

Octavia smiled at me. "And he hasn't missed one school day since."

I was actually struck speechless by this. I felt my cheeks color. _But just remember that when I have my scholarship handed to me, you'll be here, living it up at a party thrown by teenagers._

It was no longer such a mystery to me why I wasn't exactly one of Bellamy's favorite people. It was true that those words had been an unfortunate choice at the time, but I hadn't known how close to home it would hit, nor did it excuse his behavior up to that point.

"What about you?" Octavia asked as we came to the mouth of the library. "What's your mess?"

I stilled.

It was always something; a reminder prompted by small, everyday things.

The passing of a truck.

The sound of rain.

Music.

Today it came as a question, and it was enough to reach into my mind and drag the memory to the surface. Not that that was very difficult to do in the first place-those images were never too far from me.

 _"Okay, okay, Dad. Shh. This is our song," I said, reaching over to turn up the volume. The lyrics to Danny Boy flooded the car and I started belting out the words, dropping my voice low until my vocal chords scraped against each other._

 _Dad grinned over at me and turned it up even more, until every word blared in my ears. It pounded in unison with the rain, pelting the windshield._

 _"The summer's gone and all the flowers are dying," Dad sang, pointing over at me._

 _"It's you, it's you must go and I must bide," I finished. It was hard to sing through the grin on my face but I managed and we tossed the lines back and forth, cuing each other._

 _"And then my grave will richer, sweeter be!"_ _Dad shouted, much louder than Johnny._

 _I laughed and tossed back my head. "And you'll bend down and tell me that you love me."_

 _It was between that lyric and the next that a new sound cut through to me. Maybe I could've heard it over the rain. But I couldn't hear it over the music, and it wasn't until the truck's headlights were flashing in my father's window that I knew what would happen next._

 _The last lyric came over the stereo just before the truck collided with us._

 _A_ _nd I will rest in peace until you come to me._

I shoved away the memory, my vision blurring. I looked away from Octavia and took a deep breath. "Nothing worth much mention," I told her. It wasn't a lie; I actually wished I had clutter; the pain in my life was too tidy and too neat.

There was no mess, just one person's very prominent absence.


	6. Nicknames

**All right; one theme I kind of don't like is the constant hate on Finn. Sure, he got bad towards the end of the show, but he started out as a cool guy. So I am NOT going to have Finn be the antagonist in this. He is still Finn. Modern Finn, but Finn. Frankly I feel bad for him a lot of the time. Oh, and please review (the next chapter of the 99 is almost done).**

Mom wasn't back when I made it home from school. No surprise there; she often worked late. Sometimes she'd go days without coming home, too busy with her usual maelstrom of surgeries and rounds. That was the hand cardiologists got dealt, after all.

It might've made for some lonely evenings spent in front of the TV, but I understood. It's what I wanted to do in the future, so at least I wouldn't go in as some naïve kid who didn't know what she was getting herself into. I knew it with every iota of my being, and every one of those craved to be in scrubs.

In the kitchen, I pulled out the leftover spaghetti I'd made from the previous night. I didn't even bother with a plate-I just plopped down on the sofa with the whole Tupperware.

I clicked through the channels, settling on a cooking show. They were demonstrating how to filet a fish, and seeing the animal being cut apart was soothing for some morbid reason.

When the demonstrator moved on to something that no longer required a knife, I called Finn again.

We'd talked some last night and he was coming back tomorrow anyway. It wasn't like I had any desperate need to talk to him now, but I wanted to. I wanted to hear something good after the depressing weekend and day I'd been having.

He answered on the third ring. "Hey," his boyish voice chimed, but it lacked its usual enthusiasm.

I smiled faintly. "Hey. I just called to see how things were with you."

"It's good. You?"

"Great." Okay, so maybe there was a little mockery there. I covered it quickly. "How'd you like the programs?"

A wistful sigh. "They're amazing, Clarke. They're too amazing. I can't pick one. It's like . . ." he struggled to find the right word. "Sophie's Choice."

I smirked. "Have you even seen that movie?"

"No," he admitted, "But I get the gist. Girl faced with an impossible decision." He paused. "I don't know how you girls live like that all the time. Every day is a woman's Sophie's Choice."

My brain couldn't delve up a snarky-enough remark at that. "Ha-ha," I drolled flatly. "That's hilarious."

Finn's soft laugh echoed through the speaker. "I'm kidding. _You_ are shockingly decisive for your pair of chromosomes."

"Gee, thanks."

A beat of silence thrummed between us.

"Are you okay?" Finn asked. "You seem kind of . . . off."

Even though he wasn't able to see me, I nodded. "Yeah. Just, um . . . stressed, I guess. School and stuff."

I mentally cringed at how bad of a lie that sounded. Sure, school had its anxiety, but it wasn't school bothering me. It was, ironically, everything else.

Finn made a _tsk_ ing sound and I could almost picture him shaking his head with a look of faux disapproval. "Well in exactly," he checked the clock, "twelve hours and twenty one minutes, I'll be traipsing through the halls of Arkadia High once again and we'll see to destressifying you."

"That's not a word."

"And yet it's fitting."

I smiled, my discontentment ebbing some. "Thank you, Finn."

I could practically hear his wink through the phone. "Any time, Princess."

And just like that, the discontentment was back. The nickname reverberated through my mind long after the beep of the ended call.

 _Princess._

It wasn't Finn who'd started it, but he'd planted the seed, occasionally doling out 'Highness's and 'Monarch's and the like to me whenever I received a higher grade than him.

Apparently some of the aforementioned students had caught it and before I knew it, the whole school had dictated one harmless little nickname to their own academic hierarchy. It went from an almost endearing epithet to something people either liked or despised about me. It lost that endearing factor and now, sounded more insulting than anything else.

And to have Finn remind me of that, didn't bode well for my already crappy day.

* * *

My plan was to get an early jump on the morning, maybe even cram in a little extra reading time, but that plan backfired. Big time. Instead of being on the top of my game as I expected-as I usually was-I arrived at class red-faced and five minutes late.

A few snickers sounded from around the room but I ignored them. After two years of it, you kind of had to learn to.

Class went slow today, mostly because I kept glancing at the clock. When it finally stopped its insufferable teasing and the bell ricocheted down the halls, I made my way out of the room about as quickly as I'd entered.

Someone was waiting for me outside the door and my heart swelled when they landed on a familiar face, his jaw-length hair tucked behind one ear. He wore his usual plaid shirt and tired jeans, leaning against the wall with his thumbs tucked in his pockets.

Finn smiled broadly at me and I didn't waste any time closing the distance.

"Hey, Stranger," he said as he swept me into an embrace, arms locking around me. I returned it, smiling into his shoulder. He smelled of plane, but I didn't care.

I pulled back first, tilting my chin up to see into his copper-brown eyes. "How was your flight?"

His finger rubbed concentric circles on my lower back. "Oh, fantastic. The peanuts really made it worthwhile."

I chuckled. "You already missed first period. Why didn't you just take the whole day off?"

The corner of his lips turned up in that lopsided grin I always liked. "And miss the hallway reunion with my girlfriend?"

"But I've only got a minute before I gotta go."

"Then, we'll make it count."

His hand snaked up through my hair as he lowered his face to mine. Our lips touched and I wrapped my arms around his neck, ignoring the world around me. I loved Finn. Maybe not in the fireworks-exploding, judgement-inhibiting kind of way, but it was an honest love. A comfortable love. We'd been friends even before we'd started dating. He was the person who made me feel safe. He was, simply put, a part of me.

* * *

After last period ended, someone was waiting for me in the hall. For a second, I expected it to be Finn again, but it wasn't.

It was Octavia.

I was immediately relieved that Bellamy was nowhere to be seen and the smile I gave her was genuine. I shoved away my prickle of annoyance at being delayed further as I fell into step beside her. "What's up?"

Octavia's lips pressed into a thin line, our footsteps lost in the cacophony of the others. She moved in front of me, cutting me off. "I need to ask you something. You'll probably think it's weird and a little random, but . . . "

The anxiety in her voice made me suddenly apprehensive. "What is it?"

Octavia made a sound of exasperation. "The family I'm staying with . . . well, I really need it to go well with them and though they haven't exactly said anything to me, I know they're worried I'll be that outcast in school that doesn't have any friends. Or the only friends I'll be capable of making will be the junkies or the tatted up weirdos. I need them to think I'm doing well here and I was hoping you'd . . ." she shrugged. "Come over sometime. For dinner or something. Just so they could see you; know I'm not in with the wrong crowd."

I blanched as her blue eyes flooded with hopefulness. I didn't know what I'd expected her to say, but not this. I felt both flattered and . . . not. It was nice to have your help wanted, but she was asking for the Princess's help; to showcase my reputation here. She wasn't asking for _my_ help.

But looking down at her, at a young girl who'd gone through more hardship than fourteen years called for, it was impossible to decline.

"Sure," I said, plastering a smile to my face. "I'd be happy to."

She grinned and even made a pumping action with her fist. "Great! How's Friday night sound? Eight-ish?"

I nodded slowly, maintaining that smile. "Sounds fine. I'll need your address, and your number, in case I get lost." I might've been good when it came to formulas and essays, but following directions was my Achilles Heel.

Octavia grinned and asked for my phone. I handed it over and she inputted the information. She returned it to me. "I really appreciate this," she said. I gave her a last nod as she hurried off, with an energy about her that reminded me of Thalia.

Something prickled the back of my neck and I cast a cursory glance over my shoulder. There, down the hallway stood Bellamy, tall and daunting with a look of disdain on his features. He was looking at me, studying me. _Warning_ me. He didn't say anything but he didn't need to; the message was clear:

 _Stay away from my sister._

Then he turned into the current of students and let it sweep him away, leaving me with a cold feeling in my chest and the heat of his glare still lingering on my face.


	7. Family Dinners

**I'm totally improvising this whole thing; I hope you like it. If anyone hasn't noticed, I kind of like the drama of a non-fantasy/dystopian. Highschool angst! Woo. Plus I love mean Bellamy. Mean Bellamy is fun. Please review!**

The week came and went faster than I would've liked, the highlights being the time I spent with Finn, studying in my room or me watching Youtube procedures as he went over blueprints on his computer. Some couples spent their time kissing. We spent our time pouring over schoolwork with our feet entwined. It was a pretty good week, but when Friday finally came, I found myself on edge and nervous.

I wasn't exactly looking forward to the dinner with Octavia and her foster family. It made me actually question things I usually didn't question much, such as my clothing. I even put on my good jeans and a scarce, white shirt Thalia informed me was a blouse.

It had come with a plethora of questions, primarily why I was concerning myself with a freshman I didn't even really know, but I'd just shrugged and told her it was no big deal even though my shirt-questioning contradicted it.

So when school let out that afternoon and I'd finished my schoolwork along with some recreational studying, I dawned the sh—blouse—and headed to my car.

It was a cobalt-blue Nissan Versa, given to me by my Mom after . . . well, after. It didn't fit well in the highschool car lots; full of beat-up trucks and family hand-me-downs, and maybe it was a little self-sabotaging in the big way that it didn't help my nickname lose credibility.

But it was still just a car.

Octavia had texted me the address earlier and I followed it to the best of my abilities, onto Harford Road and up a steep hillside dotted with trees. The sky was already a deep purple, coloring the faraway mountains in wisps of faint peach and orange. It would've been beautiful if I allowed myself the time to appreciate it but I was too focused on not getting lost.

Somehow I found my way there, having only needed to backtrack once. But it took me a second to accept that it was the same place as it read on the text.

It was a homey house, if big houses could still be considered homey. And I knew big; I lived in a 3,000 sq. ft. house my family had bought nearly a decade ago. This was probably a little bigger than that, but there seemed to be some _small_ quality to its stone-inlaid foundation. Maybe it had to do with the fact that three people resided in it instead of two.

I parked against their wide yard, decorated with tall pines and even the white-picket fence. I took a deep breath before killing the engine and stepping out into the chilly evening air. I instantly wished I brought a bigger coat than Thalia's jean jacket, but she'd insisted. My worn hoodies apparently didn't meet her coat standards, nor did it matter to her that hers was a size too small for me.

I walked up the drive and up the steps to the front door, painted the color of wood to match the house's trimming. It was beautiful and instantly worsened my anxiety. I felt like my bra was closed one clasp too tight. Or maybe that was the jacket.

I rang the doorbell.

Muffled sounds came from the other side and I waited, standing cumbersomely straight with my hands clasped together.

The door swung open, revealing Octavia. Her brown hair was pulled into a loose tail and she wore the comfortable clothing I wished I had on. My blouse was too thin and the jacket was too small. All in all, I was regretting ever listening to Thalia.

Octavia smiled at me. "Hey! Come on in. I like your shirt."

I stepped inside, into what looked almost like a foyer. A large staircase extended upwards besides a vaulted hallway, pretty and clean and . . . full of voices echoing from the next room.

I looked around, trying to think up some nice comment. "White house," I settled on. It was true the walls were white, but they were also covered in photos. Photos of what I presumed was family. But there was also one of Octavia and farther down, someone who looked like a miniature version of . . .

"Is that Bellamy?" I asked her, peering down at the picture. The curly hair was unmistakable, as were the dark eyes. The smile seemed almost comical, especially since I knew he'd grow into a man that didn't wear it often.

Octavia nodded, brown tail swishing behind her. "Yup. Actually, Clarke, I wanted to talk to you about that."

"About what?"

"About Bellamy. He's"-

But she didn't have the time to finish, as I walked down the rest of the hall that led into the kitchen. There was a redheaded woman setting the table and an older man lounging on the couch, his brown hair dusted grey. And by the pantry lining the walls was the boy from the picture in the flesh.

Bellamy didn't seem to notice me until I was in the room and for a second, that easy expression of that child was clear in his features. But then his eyes settled on me and that look vanished.

Octavia rolled back on her heels. "My brother's kind of . . . here."

I inhaled slowly and gave a small nod of acknowledgement, nothing like the anxiety that suddenly wrapped around my chest. Or the annoyance. Or the blatant displeasure. No, I kept myself poised and not anything like I was feeling.

Mercifully, Mrs. Roffan stepped in then, offering me a warm smile and motioning me farther into the kitchen. "It's nice to meet you, Clarke," she said. "We're glad you could join us."

I wished the feeling could've been mutual but I didn't want to lie and just nodded. "Thank you for having me."

She gestured for me to take a seat at the high ebony table and I obeyed, just as the man in the living room stood from the couch. He was middle-aged with a lanky build, laugh lines fanning out from his eyes. "Hello, Clarke." His voice was much deeper than his frame suggested and I shook his hand. "Good to have you."

I thanked him too and tried to relax in my chair, but it was hard to do when Bellamy took the seat almost directly opposing me.

That newcomer awkwardness settled over the room as Octavia seated herself beside me and Mrs. Roffan started setting out the dinner; chicken casserole and a big bowl of salad, with a basket of bread rolls all placed in the center of the table. Coils of steam wafted from the basket and I momentarily forgot about the tension. I was a sucker when it came to bread.

Portions of the casserole were distributed and though I could've eaten twice as much as I was given, I wasn't going to ask for more. It was actually kind of nice, sitting at a full table for once. It had been nearly two weeks since I'd sat and had a full meal with my mom without her pager going off.

"Thank you, Mrs. Roffan," I said as she handed me back my plate.

"Oh, please, call me Maureen."

I wasn't going to do that, but I smiled anyway, swiping up one of the rolls.

"So, Clarke. Octavia tells us you're quite the student," she gushed, looking up at me as she served herself some of the salad.

I teased the casserole with my fork, hoping my discomfort didn't show. "Grades are really important to me," I answered simply.

"Bellamy gets excellent grades himself," she added, beaming over at him like any proud mother would. If it weren't for her red hair and green eyes that belied any chance of shared genes, I would've forgotten she was a foster mom and not his biological mom.

Bellamy didn't jump at the praise. In fact, he seemed as uncomfortable as I did getting any at all. Strange. The last thing I would've expected to find was common ground with Bellamy Blake.

"And your parents?" Mr. Roffan asked. "What do they do?"

 _Your parents._ I swallowed a bite of casserole. "My Mom works at the hospital downtown."

"Really? Nurse or doctor?"

"Neurosurgeon," I said. "She was the one who got me interested in medicine."

"So you want to follow in her footsteps," Mrs. Roffan said with a look that told me she was impressed.

I twirled the fork in my hand. "Almost. I want to go into pediatrics."

The Roffans exchanged a look of approval with each other. "That's great. So you must like kids then?"

"I . . . like kids a fair amount," I agreed, but seeing the odd expression that crossed their features, I felt an obligation to explain further. "I want to help people," I told them. "I want to give them a chance. No one should go through the kind of pain of . . . losing someone close to you. But I think I want to help kids more because . . . Well," I shrugged. "Kids shouldn't be sick."

Mrs. Roffan smiled sweetly at me, like my words were touching. "Your parents must be proud."

Again with _your_ _parents_. I managed a small smirk.

"And your father?"

My hand stilled on the fork. I knew this question was coming. It always came. I looked between Mr. and Mrs. Roffan, keeping my voice neutral. No matter how many times I said it, it still felt like the first.

"My Dad passed away. Last year."

There was that uncomfortable silence followed by the sympathetic looks. The entire table simpered and I felt like that person at a school bash who cut the music. Then came the condolences.

"I'm so sorry," Mrs. Roffan said. "How terrible."

I was used to that adjective. I'd received lots of _terrible_ 's and _awful_ 's and _tragic_ 's. I would've thought I'd be accustomed to hearing it all, since I knew I'd be hearing them for the rest of my life. But some things just didn't have the luxury of growing old.

"You didn't tell me that," Octavia mumbled, staring down sadly into her plate. From the corner of my eye, I saw Bellamy watching me. He was the only one at the table who didn't glance away.

"Yeah," I told them all. "It was . . . " _Terrible, awful, tragic._

"Our Dad's in prison," Octavia said, so suddenly I nearly dropped my fork. It was quickly followed by Bellamy's admonishment. _"O."_

"Sentenced to ten years for drug dealing, assault, and resisting arrest," She continued like she hadn't heard him.

"Octavia, _stop_."

"Mom died giving birth to me. Bellamy pretty much raised me since then."

 _"Octavia!"_ Bellamy's shout ricocheted around the room and Octavia finally complied, pursing her lips together.

"Bellamy, you don't need to shout at her like that," Mr. Roffan said, and I saw Bellamy's hands tighten around his own utensils, like he hated being told how he could be around his own sister. "Especially not in front of Octavia's guest."

In my peripheral vision, I saw Bellamy's eyes narrow at me, like my presence was to blame for his outburst.

"Sorry, Clarke," Mr. Roffan said, casting me a look of apology. "Would you care for another roll?"

* * *

I was relieved when dinner finally drew to a close. I'd only been there an hour or two, but it felt much longer. The Roffan's offered me to stay for a movie and I struggled to keep the panic out of my voice as I hastily declined. They were nice people, but the lack of appeal wasn't due to them. It was due to Bellamy, watching me like he wanted nothing more than for me to remove myself from this household.

I actually preferred him as the smirking party-goer. Since that day, I'd still caught that smirk, but that Saturday had been the last time it was directed at me.

"Bell, be a responsible adult and walk her out," Mrs. Roffan's birdlike voice tweeted after I'd finished helping her put away the dishes. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't necessary, but when she shot him a warning look, I decided it best not to butt in.

Bellamy, who was leaning against the kitchen counter, looked put-off by the thought, but pushed off and sauntered towards me. He brushed past me and to the entrance hall. He yanked the door open.

I hugged Octavia a bit awkwardly and thanked the Roffan's before following after him. Chilly air blasted over me and I couldn't get my coat on fast enough.

I expected for Bellamy to just turn right around and go back inside; maybe wait a few seconds to make it seem like he actually walked me to my car. But he didn't.

He stopped so suddenly, I nearly crashed into his back. He whirled on me. "I don't want you around my sister," he hissed, voice full of animosity. "She doesn't need you, okay?"

I felt my face blank, my coat sliding off my shoulders. "I never said she"—

He held up his hand. "I don't give a crap what you said. I just want you to back off. I'm her brother. I'm her family. I'm what she needs. Not _you_."

It was so out of the blue, so preposterous, that for a second, I just stared up at him. But then some inner resolution solidified in me and I held my ground. "No."

"No?"

"No," I repeated. "Because as you so astutely pointed out, I'm not here for you. I'm here for Octavia, because she so desperately wants things to go well so she can stay _for you_. So that she can be _with you_." I let out an exasperated breath, looking up at him incredulously. "Do you think I wanted to come tonight? To sit in front of people I didn't know and talk about my dead dad?"

I tossed up my hands, suddenly having the absurd desire to cry. I kept it in, though. Like always. "But I came anyway, because I felt bad for her, just as I felt bad for you. I _feel_ bad for you."

"I don't want your pity," Bellamy snapped, the sound like the crack of a whip. "And I don't want you pitying her. That's what people like you do. You don't see people, you see poor people. Unfortunate people. _Broken_ people."

I gawped at him. "Wh-? You want me to act like you haven't had a crappy life? You have, I know you have, but the thing you fail to realize is mine hasn't exactly been easy either."

At this, he scoffed. "Because of what exactly?" he asked, stepping forward. "Because the little Princess lost her Daddy?" A branding would've been kinder, but he didn't stop. He was like a fire, strengthening with every spark. " _I_ lost more. And until you've been where I've been, you don't get to say that to me."

My lip shook. Traitorous tears burned behind my eyes, but I forced myself to keep looking at him. "I see, because only your pain counts. But I guess you're right," I deadpanned. "I could've had it worse. I could've become someone like you. Someone who's gone through so much of their own crap, that they can't manage a shred of compassion for anyone else."

I gritted my teeth, so hard my jaw ached. "If you don't want me near Octavia, tell her that. But I won't ignore her. I won't be that person. I won't be _you_."

I didn't stick around to hear what else he had to say. I didn't stick around to see that glare of his or the hatred that was undoubtedly kindling in those eyes.

The tears were coming and they were coming fast and I turned my back to him, walking quickly down the rest of the driveway. I didn't let myself actually cry until I was in my car, enveloped in the safety of the shadows.


	8. Melted Sundaes

**Okay, I'm sorry about the whole Clarke x Finn thing, but I'm tired of the poor bloke being the abusive/aggressive/stalkerish creep he's made out to be in so many fanfictions. But I have a reason for it all. I'm apparently unable to make a story without a theme in it. Or foreshadowing. Foreshadowing is my friend. I love it. Anyway, here's the next chapter.**

I didn't want to go to school when Monday rolled around, content with staying in my living room, watching reruns of old sitcoms as I studied the principles of neuro science and flipped through my Mom's journals she'd kept during her internship. It helped lessen the emptiness of the house.

It helped me forget the disaster that was dinner and was overall a relaxing weekend, but then came Sunday. And Sunday had no choice but to turn into Monday.

I didn't know what I expected to happen, ignoring the irrational trepidation I felt at the thought of seeing Bellamy. Or Octavia. They were connected in that special familial way that I hadn't felt myself since. . . since last year. And I knew you couldn't interact with one side without interacting with the other.

Either way, I resolved to act like nothing happened and went to first period like any other day. I did everything like any other day, trying not to be conscious of any brunette walking my way.

Except for Finn, who appeared behind me at lunch. He kissed the crown of my head. "Hey, Beautiful," he said, plopping down in the seat beside me with a tray laden in an assortment of unhealthy foods. Burger, chips, pudding cup. A small carton of milk that made me suspicious.

I smirked down at his food. "Got enough sodium there?"

Finn grinned at me, tucking that disobedient lock of hair behind his ear. "Says the girl who participated in the annual Pie Eating Contest." He took a bite of the burger. "And won."

I ignored the jab. It was true, but I elected to ignore that small fact. "I see. And you felt five ounces of milk would help make it a balanced meal?"

As if to demonstrate, Finn took a sip of that, too. "Yeah. If by healthy, you mean Cherry Coke."

I shook my head at him, giving him a disapproving look. "You didn't."

He pushed the carton to me and I took a small sip, confirming that it, indeed, was not milk. "Unbelievable," I mumbled, struggling to maintain my look of disapproval. It was hard though. Especially since this wasn't the only time he'd smuggled in soda. It was something he'd do in middle school from time to time. A few kids would even buy it off him.

I sighed. "It's better than beer," I proffered, my mind flashing back to my party experience.

He pointed at me. "Or drugs. See? I'm a healthy guy, Griffin. Both morally and physically."

I scoffed. "Mentally, you could use some work."

He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and I snuggled into his side. "Which is why I have you. My little voice of reason."

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, right."

"My . . . Northern Star, then?"

"No."

"Burt to my Ernie?"

"Stop it."

He chuckled, taking back his carton. "That reminds me," he added. "You. Me. Date this weekend."

I looked up at him. "Where to?"

He tapped me on the nose with his pinkie. "It's a surprise."

I smiled and just as he was about to kiss me Thalia came over, sitting in the seat opposing ours.

She exchanged a speculative look between us, her braided hair piled high on her head. "I don't know whether I aspire to have your guys' kind of relationship or am a little turned off by it all." She waved her hands. "It's all too sweet and fluffy and sugary. You're like a sundae."

I raised an eyebrow at her. "We remind you of a sundae?"

Finn tossed up his hands, crossing his legs over the chair closest to him. "Fine, but I get to be the whipped cream. Griffin here is the cherry. The topper to all things amazing."

I wrinkled my nose, but I was smiling.

"And while that's great and all," Thalia continued, "I'm not sure if I want a sundae, you know? I mean, don't get me wrong," she said hurriedly, seeing our expressions. "Sundaes are great. But sundaes melt. And they lose their decadence to become this mushy stuff. I want . . ." She groped at empty air, like she was trying to pull out the word. "Something spicy. Something . . . fiery and long-lasting."

"What?" Finn asked. "Like a jalapeño?"

"Or gum?" I added.

Thalia shrugged. "Sort of. But personified."

Finn made a grab for his pudding cup, using my salad fork because he'd forgotten to bring a spoon. "This is a weird conversation. You're demoralizing some of my favorite foods with your innuendos. I don't like it."

Thalia let out an exasperated sigh, a sound caught between a growl and a wistful hum. "I don't know how else to explain it. I just . . . need _electricity_. There."

"Want us to go buy you an aluminum rod and wait until it rains?" I asked.

"Are you implying that Clarke and I have no electricity upon contact?" Finn interjected before Thalia could really appreciate my joke.

Thalia pursed her lips and scrunched her brows. She shook her head adamantly. "What? No. Well . . . " She paused. "Do you?"

I frowned, actually taking this into consideration. I'd heard the term 'electricity' before but I was never under the impression that it was any indication of "long-lasting" love. Or that everyone reacted to it identically. In fact, I simply saw it as lust.

I pulled my hair to one shoulder, taking my fork back from Finn, who was only half-finished with his pudding cup. "Electricity is just . . .the term," I explained. " It's not always felt in the same way. Each of our genetic makeup is different. It's unique to our individual"-

"Oh no," Thalia whined, cramming her fingers in her ears. "Here comes her inner Bill Nye."

I shot her a lukewarm glare. "Fine. I'll say it in your terms." I thought about it. "Okay, a firework for someone may just be a little . . . spark to someone else. Electricity to you could be a weak sizzle to me."

Finn brushed his shoulders against mine, giving me a wide grin. "You sizzle for me, Clarke?"

I slapped him on the shoulder. "Forget it. You were right; this conversation is getting weird."

We drifted to another topic then, all of us seemingly grateful for the chance. Every once in a while Finn would touch my hand and make a "tssss" sound, like something cooking on the stove, but we didn't mention it again.

Yet even after the subject was dropped I found myself wandering back to it. Electricity. That spark that turned all those girls from books and movies into idiots and heroines alike. What made Romeo kill himself and Sydney stand before the guillotine. But of course, the answer was always the same.

It was just how the author wrote it.

* * *

Octavia found me after school. I tried to mask my disappointment at her arrival, then chastised myself for being disappointed to begin with. It wasn't fair to blame Octavia for her ill-mannered counterpart.

She peeked over at me from under her lashes, almost shyly. "Sorry about the other night," she said, clutching her books tightly to her chest. "For not telling you Bellamy would be there. I honestly didn't know he would be until the day you were coming." She shrugged. "I didn't think it'd be much of a big deal. I mean, I know my brother hates people, but he seems to really hate you."

Bitterness lit inside me at that. "Why? We've barely had a conversation. He doesn't know enough about me to rightfully hate me."

Octavia nodded. "That's true. He doesn't. He's just . . . protective, I guess."

"I'd get that if I were a fifteen year old boy, but there's no reason to justify him despising me for . . ."I trailed off, looking for a reason I couldn't find.

 _You don't see people. You see poor people._ Broken _people._

Honestly, what did that even mean? I'd thought he'd hated me for my grades, but Mrs. Roffan had assured me he was an excellent student himself. So what else was it?

Octavia gave me a sympathetic look. "I don't know; it's weird."

I grimaced. "Maybe he's just pissed at the world."

"He usually is. He's got a lot to be pissed off for. To be honest, I don't think he likes me hanging out with you."

 _No,_ I thought a little dryly. _Really?_

Instead, I asked, "What makes you think that?"

She shrugged again. I was beginning to see it as a habitual thing for her. "Just a feeling. Can't imagine why, though. It's not like you're a bad influence on me: Honor Roll student, aspiring doctor. "

"Or maybe he just doesn't like sharing you," I said. It was the most logical explanation I could come up with, especially given their past.

"Maybe. Hey," she put a hand on my arm, stopping me. Her eyes suddenly turned somber. "I never told you sorry, about your dad."

I winced internally, hating the random mention. Every day.

I gave her the best smile I could manage, hoping the painful throb over my chest didn't bleed through and show her how those words made me feel. "Thanks."

"Also," she added, as we neared the hall where we'd part. "You wouldn't want to hang out with me again? No parents or Bell involved. Just girl time."

"Like what?"

She puckered her lips in thought. "We could just study or something. I need to get out of the house, even if it is just into someone else's."

I suddenly felt apprehensive. "Do you really think that's a good idea?" I asked, leveling my words carefully. "Won't that . . . upset Bellamy?" I didn't feel like making things worse with him right now, particularly since I still had to share a school with him until graduation.

Octavia smiled and this time, it was tinged with malice. "Oh, Clarke. What Bell doesn't know can't hurt him."


	9. Reasons

**Grrrr, why is this so fun to write? I have my own story I should be working on! *reprimands self* Doggonit! (And yes, that is a word frequently used in my daily vocabulary). I'm like writing three stories at once. High fantasy, modern-fiction, and dystopian. I'm a writing machine right now. Please review!**

I had made plans with Octavia to study the following evening. She had a paper due on the French Revolution which I was willing to help her with. When I'd told Thalia what I had planned, she'd given me a baffled look, quickly followed by the obvious, "But she's a _freshman_."

Which was, perhaps, why I found Octavia's company refreshing. She wasn't yet completely enamored by the prospect of boys and was too young to be graphic in the ways Thalia could be. I didn't have to worry about her mentioning some guy she'd met at a party or stealing my sweets out of the cookie jar I had stashed in the back of the pantry.

No, the only thing I had to proceed with caution on when it came to Octavia was all genetic affiliations.

And that's precisely what I did, come six o'clock. I was already caught up on homework but this was as good a time as any to finish that chapter on hematomas. I was grateful that I didn't have to go and pick up Octavia myself; Mrs. Roffan dropped her off at my house when she came off work and I led Octavia inside.

"Wow," she breathed, staring up at the high-vaulted ceiling lit by two uplight chandeliers. "Your house is . . ."

"Pretty bare," I mumbled, motioning her to take a seat anywhere in the living room. I'd turned on the TV earlier, the _Friends_ theme song playing around the carpeted room.

"Where's your mom?" Octavia asked, setting down her backpack.

Snatching up the remote, I lowered the volume on the TV. "Work."

"Doesn't she eat?"

"She eats there."

"So then you see her after dinner?"

I sighed. "Sometimes."

For some reason, Octavia found this shocking. Her mouth popped open. "Doesn't she sleep here?"

I lifted my shoulders, returning to my seat on the white sofa. I tucked my feet beneath me. "Not always. They have on-call rooms at the hospital where she sleeps. She works a lot of thirty-four hour shifts." I didn't mention how lonely this house got at night and I didn't mention the few times I'd wake to nightmares, wanting to crawl into bed with my mom only to remember she wasn't home.

After a year with her empty bed, I'd learned how to deal with those nightmares on my own.

I could tell by Octavia's ambivalent expression she didn't want to pry, but it obviously still bothered her. Like her brother, she didn't try hard to hide what she was feeling. In fact, she let it all into her face.

"It's okay," I added, trying to comfort her for my solitude. "I'm almost an adult and I'll be moving out next year anyway."

This seemed to help some but she still looked uneasy as she retrieved her books from her bag and opened them up on the coffee table.

"If you say so," she murmured.

* * *

An hour later, a knock came from the front door.

I shut the medical textbook I'd been reading and stood. "Must be the mailman."

"At seven at night?" Octavia asked from behind her own textbook.

I shrugged but didn't offer an explanation as I hurried down the entrance hall. I honestly didn't know who it would be, but I definitely did not open the door expecting a tall, brooding figure to be on the other side of it.

My eyes widened at the sight of Bellamy, standing stoic on the weathered Welcome mat that looked about as cheerful as I felt.

I stared up at Bellamy, his dark eyes dropping to mine. My mind hit replay on our previous conversation.

 _I lost more. And until you've been where I've been, you don't get to say that to me._

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly feeling very dry. "Yeah?" I asked as nonchalantly as I could. It was getting harder and harder to remain nice to this guy. "Can I help you?"

He crossed his arms over his chest. With the leather jacket and dark jeans, he kind of reminded me of one of those menacing bouncers stationed outside of clubs that I never went into.

"I'm here for Octavia," he deadpanned, already glaring at me.

I shook my head, not even bothering to ask how he knew this address. I assumed Mrs. Roffan gave it to him. Either that or he Googled me. I prayed it was the first one.

I didn't even have to call for Octavia. She appeared at my side, staring up at her brother in surprise. "What're you doing here, Bell?" she asked, brows knitting together in confusion.

"I'm here to take you home," Bellamy said bluntly.

"But . . .you live downtown."

"Maureen wanted me to get you."

"She was going to pick me up at eight."

Irritation leaked into his tone. "Well, I'm picking you up now. Get your stuff and let's go."

Looking like she wanted to argue, Octavia returned to the living room to collect her books. I brought my eyes back up to Bellamy. "I can take her home at eight," I offered. "It's no problem." I could be the bigger person and take the first step here. Or at least, that was what I told myself.

Bellamy didn't even acknowledge what I'd said. "I thought I made myself clear the other day."

I crossed my own arms over my chest. "I thought I did, too."

"My sister isn't your little"—

Octavia returned then, pack slung over her shoulder. She looked between us and I nearly let her pass. But I had reached the end of my tolerance.

I held up a finger to her. "Excuse us for a second," I said, "There's some snacks in the cookie jar that's in the pantry," I added to avoid her overhearing anything. Then I stepped out and shut the door behind me.

"Okay." I turned back to Bellamy, showing him my hands. "I'm tired of doing this. Can you maybe just save us all time and tell me what your problem is with me? Because I honestly don't know. Is it because of what I said about that scholarship? If that's it then, . . . I'm sorry," I said, albeit a bit begrudgingly. "But you have said things that were way worse. And frankly, I wouldn't care. But I like Octavia. She's a good kid and if she wants to hang out with me or if she needs help on a paper, I don't want her to feel like she has to go behind her brother's back in order to do it. So just tell me, because I don't want this," I gestured between us. "Anymore."

Bellamy glowered at me, leaning down so our faces were closer. "I don't have a problem with you. _You're_ the problem."

I raised my brows at him. "Could you elaborate, please?"

He obliged. "Your impeccable grades. Your reputation. In case you haven't noticed, my sister's been hurt enough in her life. She doesn't need some privileged chick like you acting as her friend when everyone else knows someone like you really has no interest in being her buddy."

It actually took me a minute to understand the implication in his words, and when I did, I couldn't quiet my sound of surprise. Or incredulity. "You think I'm using your sister?" I scoffed, my mouth hanging open. "For _what_?"

Bellamy shook his head, curly brown hair falling over his eyes. "Maybe it has to do with the fact that Charles Roffan is the head of the UW Board. Or maybe you just enjoy messing with people; putting ideas in their heads. Expectations of what success should look like when the reality is you," he pointed at my chest. "You got everything handed to you on a silver platter. That's not success. That's cheating. That's getting what you want without even working for it. And I don't want my sister to look up to someone who is where she is just by birthright."

I blanched at him, words failing me as I stared into his burnished eyes. "Let me get this straight," I said, trying to collect my scattered thoughts. "So . . . you're saying, I don't deserve to be where I am? That having a financially supportive mother somehow makes me _privileged?_ " I dropped my arms, hands curling into fists. "That, and you think I'm using Octavia to get into UW, which I never even considered attending to begin with."

I drew in a deep breath, having the maniacal urge to laugh. "Let me tell you something, Bellamy Blake, I am where I am because of the effort I've put in. Yeah, maybe I do enjoy studying. Maybe I like reading for pleasure. But that doesn't make me any less qualified to be where I am. Octavia was right," I glared up at him. "You aren't pissed at me. You're pissed at the world and your own life that you had no control over growing up." I took a step closer, until our foreheads were practically touching. "But being mad at it doesn't get you anywhere. Just as being born a surgeon's daughter doesn't get me A's on my papers."

The muscles in his jaw grew taught and pronounced, and if looks could kill, I'd be bleeding out on the Welcome mat. "I don't care what you think of me," he said, a dark edge to his voice. "I don't care about your reasons. I don't care about _you._ But if you hurt my sister, I won't just sit quietly on the sidelines."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Are you _threatening_ me?"

Bellamy leaned over, his face just inches from mine. His hand reached out, gripping the handle of the front door behind me. He pushed it open. "O, come on!"

A few seconds later, Octavia stepped out, a lollipop in her mouth. She glanced between me and her brother with an expression of pure bewilderment, sensing the tension that strained the air around us.

She clearly didn't think it wise to comment, but cast me a look of apology as she bounded down the porch steps and to the Honda waiting against the pavement.

Bellamy looked from his sister and back to me.

"Yeah," he said. "I am."


	10. A Front Row Seat

**I've made a mistake. And that mistake is liking Finn. I don't know how that happened. *holds up shield* But I wanted him to be likable. Tell me: in this story, is he likable? Please review!**

"You're really not telling me where we're going?" I asked, keeping my eyes shut as ordered. It was Friday evening, the date night Finn had planned and I sat in the front seat of his beat-up car, a muffled Greg Laswell song coming from the crappy speakers.

Finn laughed quietly. "Nope. And you better not peek."

I turned my head towards him and cracked my fingers open threateningly. "Or what?"

"Or you'll ruin it. And that's against your medical nature."

I managed to roll my eyes behind shut lids. "That's a lame excuse."

"Fine. If you want to ruin what I spent the week meticulously planning then go ahead."

"No," I sighed with faux impatience. "I'll wait."

But when I felt the car's tires jostle more than usual, bumping over what I could only presume was a dirt road, the false impatience turned a little more genuine. "Can you at least tell me what direction we're going in?"

"Forward."

I leaned against the headrest, smirking to myself. "You're really testing me, Collins."

"Gotta find some way to keep the relationship fresh, Griffin."

Greg Laswell turned into some somber number and Finn reached up to switch it off, which I appreciated. Another handful of minutes passed before the car finally shuddered to a halt.

Finn put it in park. "Here."

I wiggled my hands. "Where's 'here?'"

The creak of the door signaled to me that he was getting out of the car. I heard his footsteps as he came over to my side and opened my own door. Cool air prickled my skin.

"No looking yet," he instructed.

"Why? Do you want me to trip?"

"No, but if you're opposed to walking a little, I can always carry you bridal style."

I shook my head, lowering one hand so he could take hold. Soft fingers wrapped around mine. "All right, come on. It's just up here."

" _What_ is?"

"Patience, Grasshopper."

I let him lead me on, to where I had no idea. I did trip once, toe catching on a pothole, but Finn steadied me before I could fall on the ground. Gravel crunched under my sneakers and I heard the high-pitched keen of some kind of gate being opened.

"Almost," Finn said, dragging out the word. He took me by the shoulders and steered me a little farther before turning me around. "Sit."

"There's something for me to sit on right?"

He sighed melodramatically. "No trust. Yes. Sit. I've got you."

Using his arms as support, I leaned back until I felt a hard cushion beneath me. I relaxed, settling into the chair. It rocked back a little, making me grip the sides.

"All right. Now hang tight," he said, his hands disappearing from me. My eyes cracked open, not enough to make out anything, though. "Finn?"

"Don't look!"

"What're you-?"

"Got it!"

The chair under me suddenly kicked, moving beneath me. I let out a yelp, unable to keep my eyes from flying open. I looked down, gripping the seat that I could now see was part of a Ferris wheel. It wasn't big; just enough to hold five or six carts, but high enough to expose the small theme park around me. It was abandoned, clearly, constructed a mile or so off the highway.

"Oh my gosh!" I shouted, looking back down at Finn who stood by the dilapidated control booth. "What is this?"

He beamed up at me, stopping the motion only when my kart had reached the top. It rocked under me. "What does it look like?"

"It looks like a broken Ferris wheel."

He nodded. "Ahem, _fixed_ Ferris wheel. That's the perk of being an electrical technician. Some say it's nerdy, but c'mon; how many guys can say they've given their girl her very own Ferris wheel?"

I stared at him, torn between astonishment and . . . amusement. " _This_ was what you were doing this week?"

"Yup."

"Why?"

"Because of the view."

I looked out again, to the piles of leftover wood and the remains of a few structures that now looked more like lean-to's. "What view?"

"Look up."

I did, and some of the breath went out of me. I'd seen the stars before, these very constellations, but they seemed brighter here and the few extra feet the Ferris wheel gave made them feel a small world's closer.

I peered back over the side at him. "Did you plan how to get yourself up here too or are you just going to enjoy the view from there the whole time?"

His grin stayed plastered to his face and he stepped out of the control booth. He disappeared from sight and returned a moment later, gripping a small ladder under his arm.

I couldn't keep my own smile off my face and laughed outright. "Are you serious?"

Finn winked up at me. "Can a man carrying a ladder be anything but?" He stopped on my left side and maneuvered the ladder so it reached me. I held it fast as he climbed up, until he practically towered over me. He dropped into the spare space in the cart.

"Isn't this illegal?" I asked, as he stretched his arm out behind me, sighing contentedly. He looked sidelong at me, face unconcerned. "Probably. But the way I see it, I fixed the wheel. I should get a free ride."

"I think that's fair."

Finn smiled. "I also come bearing provisions," he said, taking out a bag of Doritos. I gave an incredulous shake of my head as he opened the bag. We shared it between us.

"And now . . ." Finn leaned into me, just enough for our lips to touch. Sweet and gentle like him. He drew his hands back. "Part two."

I raised my eyebrows. "What, did you get me a carousel as well?"

He tucked his hair behind his ear. "Your sarcasm is adorable and I'd gladly give you one to expand your mini-carnival but this is actually smaller."

He dug around in his coat pocket, producing a little box about the side of my palm.

I smiled, taking it gingerly in my hands. "What's this for?"

He rubbed his own hands together, leaning forward so the cart swayed slightly. "This is for nothing. It is a nothing present for a nothing occasion."

I gawked at him, feeling my eyebrows raise impossibly higher. "Then what was the Ferris wheel for?"

"The Ferris wheel was just me providing the view."

I made a face. "How high do you think my standards are?"

He peered down, gauging the distance. "'Bout seven feet."

I grinned, a warm feeling spreading through me. Thalia had been right; there was none of that blazing electricity one spoke of in books between me and Finn but this . . . this was probably better. It was safe. It was sweet. And it made me feel important in a way that no good grade ever could.

I looked back to the box again. "I don't have to close my eyes again, do I?"

"No."

I nodded, and pulled off the lid.

Nestled inside the box of cotton gleamed something small and metal, connected to a chain. I didn't know what it was until I pulled it out, staring at the metallic bird hanging there, perpetually frozen in flight.

It wasn't gaudy or decorated in bling. It was intricate, yet simple. Like me.

I stared between it and Finn.

"I didn't buy it," he said hurriedly, knowing how much I hated it when he spent an unreasonable amount of money on anything for me. "I made it."

My lips parted in surprise, and I looked back at the bird with newfound interest. "You _made_ it?"

He smiled his lopsided one. "I did. And legally, too."

My jaw worked, but I couldn't find the right words. A thank you didn't really cover it, so I settled for pulling him to me and pressing my lips to his. "It's beautiful," I said as I drew back. I opened the clasp to put it on but Finn took it out of my hands.

"Allow me," he said. He draped it over my neck and the wings of the bird rested cold against my skin, just beneath the hollow of my throat. I held onto it as he fastened the chain, smiling to myself. To the abandoned carnival world around me.

I smiled over at Finn. "You're kind of amazing, you know that?"

He gave me a look that was anything but self-deprecating and wrapped his arms around me, my head on his shoulder. We stayed there for a while, watching the stars and folded into each other. When the wind started to pick up, throwing my hair around me and signaling a brewing storm, Finn clapped his hands.

"All right; part three!"

I looked after him in surprise, as he reached for the ladder. "There's a part three?"

Finn shook his head at me, disbelieving. "No one stops on part two, Griffin. Part two is for the uncreative."

* * *

Part three was apparently The Plot—one of the larger bookstores downtown. I was kind of partial to small bookstores myself, fond of the cozy decorum, but any place with books was a welcomed sight to me. Especially a bookstore that was open until midnight.

It was a half-hour to, and Finn had found something on nanoelectronics while I had amassed a small collection on child psychology and a thin book on social services. I wasn't exactly sure why I'd grabbed it, but I found myself buying it anyway, after rejecting Finn's offer to do so himself.

He'd argued, of course, but I was stubborn and he had no choice but to acquiesce.

"Did you have fun tonight?" He asked as we settled back in the car, the stack of books balanced on my lap.

I smiled, taking his free hand in mine and assured him I had. But before we reached the house, I asked him to stop at the seven-eleven.

"I'm fine on gas," he said.

I opened the door. "I know. I just want to get some candy." I needed to re-stock my cookie jar, almost wishing I hadn't told Octavia about 'd swiped at least half the peanut butter cups from it the other day and I had a rule that chocolate needed to be in the house at all times.

Finn shook his head, clicking his tongue in mock ridicule. "You and your jar. Fine. I'll go get your candy."

"You don't even know what"—

"Reese's," he said, tossing me a smile before hopping out of the car.

I opened my mouth to protest. "And"—

"Skor Bars, I know the drill." Finn raised his wallet as he passed across the windshield. "But I get to pay for this!" He cast a knowing look over his shoulder. "And don't you hide a five dollar bill in my car."

I sighed, but let him go, leaning my head back, glancing around the empty lot. Or, nearly empty. A high squeal came from my right as the driver whipped his vehicle into the lot and I mentally reprimanded him for the recklessness. But I just shut my eyes, waiting for Finn.

A few seconds later I opened them again, looking towards the front door as he exited, white bag in hand. He smiled at me.

Someone came out from behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. Finn turned around, facing the man I couldn't make out clearly from underneath his dark hood.

I watched, as Finn's back suddenly went ramrod straight. He dropped the bag on the ground, white plastic shuddering in the wind, and a small voice warned me that something wasn't right. A coldness settled inside me, chilling me to the bone.

Finn wrested his wallet out of his pocket and handed it to the hooded man just as a strong gust of wind caught under his hood and swept it back. I couldn't make out much, the gas station lights spectral and poor, but I didn't think I imagined the look of panic that crossed over the man's face.

Finn shook his head.

And that was when a gunshot pierced the night air.


	11. When the Music Stops

**Short chapter, but I blame Fanfiction. On Word, it's five pages.**

At first, I thought it was just something hard slapping against the ground. I thought the wind had knocked over one of the trash bins by the front doors. I didn't really know what it was until Finn's knees buckled and the guy ran off.

It was too surreal, too distant, like watching a film.

I was out of the car before I even thought to move. Dimly I noted how I was still carrying the books as I walked over, my pace turning into a sprint. I dropped them on the ground and fell to my knees, staring down at someone I didn't recognize. A broken Finn. A bleeding Finn. It felt like a joke because this . . . this wasn't real. I couldn't take it in.

My entire body shook and a weird sound was coming out of my mouth as I placed my hands on him, as if I expected this image to shatter at my touch. It didn't; my fingers just came away red and sticky.

"Clarke," he whispered, wide, unfocused eyes staring up at me. His hand latched onto my arm, the nails digging into my skin.

That was when something in me shifted, and I pulled out my phone. I dialed 911, not hearing my own voice as I spoke. "Someone's been shot." I think was what I said, my mouth forming those words, so foreign and strange and incomprehensible.

People expected things like this to happen. All the time. But they never expected it to happen to them. It was as impossible as the sky falling; as impossible as trucks materializing out of thin, rainy air.

I hung up and tossed the phone aside, looking back at a now close-eyed Finn.

Cold terror slammed into me. "No, Finn, you have to stay awake, okay?" I said, but his awareness was beginning to wane, his hold on my arm loosening.

His eyes fluttered and I stopped for a second, rifling through every medical thing I knew. But I couldn't think clearly. It all seemed convoluted and messy now and I clamped my hands over the wound punching through his chest.

There are ten pints of blood in the adult body. Ten pints.

One pint was spilling out from under his body, painting the cement around us a deep crimson. Another was coating the front of my shirt, but a person could survive on eight pints. They could even survive on seven, which was running down the sides of his abdomen in brilliant ribbons of red, like a package crudely ripped opened.

But not six.

Six pints meant death, and it had already begun to drain beneath my hands, squelching between my fingers and soaking his upper torso. I wished he'd worn something other than white.

"You're not dying, okay?" I told him. It was an order and I injected as much conviction as I could into my voice which wasn't very much. But that was okay; I could lie well enough. Doctors always had to, just as much with their words as their faces. Maybe even more so. They wanted to break it to the families with ease, not let something like the set of their lips give it away.

I went over what I knew to keep myself from that, from letting my feelings bleed into my expression. His partially distended abdomen was an indication of internal bleeding; pulse was fading fast.

 _Six pints six pints six pints._

I took a shaky breath. "You'll be fine," I said, my voice feeling misplaced somewhere in my throat, like it took a wrong turn. It came out strained and broken.

I pressed my hands down harder over the wound, trying to keep the pieces of him inside where they belonged. I pushed until my arms cramped, ignoring the convulsion that ran through his body. I stared into his face, eyelashes casting shadows onto his cheekbones, his unruly dark hair framing around his head like a halo. I tried to hear past his painful gasps.

"You're okay," I said again. It came out louder than I intended, as if I was making a bargain with God. "The ambulance is on its way."

 _It'll be here. It's coming. Real doctors will fix this._

Finn let out a choked sound, haggard and garbled. Blood bubbled up his throat, staining his lips an awful scarlet. But I still told myself he'd be fine. He had to be. There was no other option.

His eyes suddenly fluttered open and I found myself looking into liquid brown. There was a resolve in them, like he'd made peace with something I couldn't see. There was a goodbye in those eyes and his hand latched onto mine. He squeezed.

But I wasn't ready. "No." I shook my head adamantly. "No, you're not dying on me, okay?" It was a beg this time, but I didn't care. I'd beg for him. I'd beg the world for him. "I need you to fight. Please, _please_. Do it for me. Fight for _me_!"

His eyes stayed on mine for another moment, clear. Beautiful. Then they drifted to the stars above my shoulder.

They glazed over, and his grip went slack.


	12. Nightmare

**Wow, positive feedback on Finn! I'm shocked (he's Bellarke kryptonite, after all). But dang. Oh, and I'm thinking of titling this something different because it really is nothing like the film. It was loosely inspired by it. Very, very loosely.**

Everything was the same, like I'd been here before. I _had_ been here before. The sirens. The flashing lights. The voices speaking to and around me. The interior of the ambulance.

"Charge to three hundred!" One of the paramedics ordered, placing the defibrillator paddles over Finn's chest. It was as if this entire year had dissolved. The picture flickered and I felt like I was seeing someone else.

 _"_ _He's crashing. Push one of epi! Charge to two hundred!"_

It was a replay of the worst day of my life.

The ambulance moved beneath me, its insides a flurry of activity and I think I was prattling off what little I knew. The paramedics charged the paddles again, and Finn's chest lurched upward. The sight was sickening, but I couldn't look anywhere else, other than at my hands, still red with his blood.

* * *

They didn't call it, even when I knew he was gone. They maxed out of epi. Out of every drug they could shoot him up with to keep his heart beating. I didn't even feel it when the ambulance stopped in the back of the hospital and loaded him out. I didn't feel it as one of the paramedics grabbed one of my bloodied hands and tried to get me to step down. I didn't feel it as I was taken inside.

My eyes were on the ground, and I watched as it changed from the grey pavement into the white linoleum of the hospital.

"Clarke?" Someone said and it took me a second to register my mother's voice floating to me through the haze. Of course she was here. Why wouldn't she be? She worked here, after all.

"Clarke, Honey." Her face appeared in front of me, amber eyes staring into mine. She cradled my face in her hands, like she was waiting for me to break so she could catch the pieces. That's how it happened last time.

But I just stared, not seeing anything, but knowing it all the same. "He's dead," I whispered. I didn't even give it the courtesy by making it a question. I didn't want to give myself that hope when I already knew. I'd known it from the moment he'd looked up at the stars.

My Mom pursed her lips—the doctor façade splintering some as she tried unsuccessfully to avoid the inevitable. "Yes," she finally said. "He is."

I knew she was waiting for some kind of reaction. Denial, maybe. Anger. But that didn't come. What came was just a terrible silence that dragged on and on and on.

* * *

I took it back. The worst day wasn't the day of the accident, it was the day I believed it happened. Coming home, stepping inside my house and feeling angry that it still looked the same. It was like the world not taking notice of an earthquake. How did everything just . . . go on like nothing had happened?

I stepped into the entry hall, my eyes still on my hands. Still red. I didn't say anything as I rushed up the stairs, ignoring my Mom's call behind me. I raced into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. I turned on the faucet, as hot as the water could go before sticking my hands under. It burned, but I didn't care. I liked the pain. It was better than the silence and I scrubbed at the blood, staining the water pink. I scrubbed and scrubbed, until my skin flamed and swelled.

I dug out the dry blood from under my nails, not wanting any bit of it left on me. Only when I looked up into the mirror did I see the front of my shirt painted in it, too. So I went over to the shower and stepped inside, not even bothering to undress before turning it on. This time, I made the water cold. As cold as possible, letting it spill out onto my head and douse every inch of me. It felt like ice and I let my body shake, lowering myself to the floor of the bathtub. But I didn't cry, not when the shower was shedding enough tears for the both of us.

* * *

You'd think it was the sight of him bleeding on the ground that would've made it all feel real to me. For the truth to really sink in, but it wasn't. Reality didn't really come screaming back until the morning after, when I opened my phone messages to find my inbox flooded with texts and missed calls. They were from Thalia and a bunch of other people, probably from school.

But none from Finn.

And then I remembered. For a good minute after waking, It was like the previous night had never happened. But it only took me opening my inbox to find nothing from who I really needed to speak with for it all to seem suddenly, _horribly,_ real.

* * *

The police wanted a report, but Mom didn't have to drag me down to the station. They sent an officer to the house, and he sat across from me in the living room, his badge gleaming on his chest. Light eyes placed on narrow bones studied me. He was too young to be considered old, but old enough to show off the right emotions. Empathy. Understanding. All the post-loss feelings I was so intimately familiar with.

He had some folder in his hand and flipped it open, glancing between it and me. "I appreciate your time, Clarke," he said softly. "I'll make this as quick as possible."

I sighed, waiting. This wasn't the first report I'd ever given, and I was almost glad I wasn't speaking to the same officer again.

"Can you tell me what the man who shot Finn Collins looked like?"

I internally flinched at the word, but looked at the officer, his name embellished on the tag. _Officer Hindley_. He and I both knew I wouldn't forget that name.

"He was . . . taller than Finn," I said, recalling the image of him. "Blonde. Mid-thirties. Maybe younger." I used the smallest words I could. They were easier.

Officer Hindley jotted it down. "Clothing?"

"Black sweatshirt. It might've been a dark blue."

"Do you think you'd be able to recognize him from a picture?"

I thought so, and he pulled a couple sheets of paper out, lined in thumbnail photos of men I didn't know. He spread them out on the coffee table. "Do you think any of these men are him?"

I looked at them carefully, gaze switching from picture to picture. A tinny voice spoke the same thing over and over with each new face I looked at. _Was it you? Was it you?_

But halfway through the third sheet, I stopped on someone, and that question turned into a different one.

 _Why?_

I pointed at the image, the man's blue eyes staring straight at me.

"Are you sure that's him?" Officer Hindley asked, gauging me carefully.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm sure."

* * *

Thalia came over some time after that. I was curled up on the couch, staring at the TV when she took the seat beside me, eyes puffy with mascara streaking down her cheeks. I didn't really want the reminder and shut my eyes like that would block out the words I knew would be coming next.

"I'm sorry, Clarke. I can't believe . . . "

 _"_ _I'm sorry about your Dad. I can't believe he's gone."_

Maybe she thought I'd cry; join in on her hiccups. But I just gave a curt nod and pulled the blankets over my head.

* * *

The following afternoon, Mom pushed open my door, carrying something in her arms. It took me a second to realize it was the pile of books I'd bought with Finn, just a few days earlier. She stood under the frame of the door, gazing at me with a sad look. "The police collected these for you. Do you. . ." She sighed. "Do you want me to throw them away?"

I stared at the books, half expecting them to be drenched in blood. But they were untouched by the horror of that night.

I shook my head. "No, I'll take them." For some reason, I couldn't bear the thought of Finn's book on neoelectronics being tossed in the trash.

My Mom handed them to me before leaving. She shut the door.

I sat on the carpet and skimmed the first book, the one on social services I'd got. Then I turned to the rest. Though I couldn't throw away Finn's book, I couldn't look at it either and I set it aside, leaving just the books on child psychology and medicine.

 _"_ _A doctor, huh?" he chided, bopping his shoulder with mine. He nodded approvingly. "That's kind of funny; I like fixing things, and you like fixing people." Finn grinned at me. "Sounds like we're a good match."_

I stared down at these books, my eyes wandering to the piles of them scattered around my room. So many textbooks. I'd prided myself over knowing so much before med school, actually believing that it would make a difference. I'd tried so hard to learn everything I could. To do everything that would make me a better doctor. My dad's death had prompted me to read more, that maybe if I knew all I could, I'd be able to save someone. That maybe I could've done something to keep him from dying and could now prevent it from ever happening again.

But Finn was proof that I couldn't save anyone, and something hot suddenly ignited inside of me.

I gripped the paperback cover of the psychology book and, without hesitating, tore it right through the center. Then I moved to the next one. And the next. I couldn't rip off the covers to the textbook, so I settled for the pages instead.

I was wrong. I _had_ been naïve, thinking I was capable of holding someone's life in my hands. That I was capable of _saving_ someone.

But I wasn't. I'd just been a dreamer. A fantasist.

And now it was time to wake up.


	13. Jenga Blocks

**Oh goodness. Okay, this is not a fanfiction when I'm trying to portray these characters exactly as they are. I'm taking them and kind of quirking their personalities a bit to fit into modern times, so I hope Clarke doesn't seem too down. I mean anyone would be feeling pretty crappy in her situation. So I don't think it seems unrealistic. And also considering the physiological damage of Bellamy's character, his reactions aren't unrealistic either. Or so I hope.**

They had me speak at the funeral. I don't even remember what I said, too focused on the casket sitting in front of me to care much. If I'd had the power, I would've wished to slow down time; everything seemed to be happening too fast. Just last week Finn was here, and now he was being put into the ground. I had a grisly urge to laugh at it all. It seemed too ridiculous to comprehend.

Or maybe, I just wanted it all to slow down because after the funeral, I had nothing to do. There was nothing else to take care of. I was just supposed to return to school and move on with life. Because the living lived while the dead stayed dead. I knew the drill.

And yet, this wasn't the same as losing my dad. My dad didn't walk the same halls as me; he didn't sit in the cafeteria. He wasn't scrawled over every part of Arkadia High which was why I hated the idea of going to school and put it off for as long as possible.

My good grades and perfect GPA allowed me that much; nearly a three week mourning period. But time still wasn't slowing and those weeks had come and gone in the blink of an eye. Monday arrived, and I was forced to clean up and walk out of the house with my bag in hand just like any other day. Same car, same route, same lot that would be holding one less car this morning.

Maybe it was stupid, but I pulled into a different space, far from the one I'd parked in every day for the last year. It was a small change that made this day finally start to feel off balance from the rest.

But what little gratification I'd gleaned from that one act disappeared the second I stepped into the school. My chest tightened.

He was everywhere. I had a memory of Finn from every point in this school; standing at the entrance, walking down the hallway, leaning against the white walls. It had the same effect as rainy drives did on me; I wanted to get out and avoid them at all costs.

I tried to shift my focus to something else, but the people casting me sad looks followed by a flurry of muttering wasn't helping any. It wasn't hard to guess what they were thinking.

 _First her dad, now her boyfriend? Sucks for her._

That would've been an understatement, and I kept my eyes on my shoes, channeling my attention on the hideous white floor. But then it started to remind me of the hospital linoleum, and I ran out of places to keep my gaze.

Luckily right then, when I felt like I was seconds away from locking myself in the bathroom, Thalia joined me. Her appearance was much cleaner than my sweats and jacket, but I could tell from her fraying braid she didn't put as much effort into it like she so often did.

She wrapped me in a hug, but I didn't feel comforted. I felt like the girl forced under a spotlight, hot and isolated from anything normal.

"How're you doing?" Thalia asked, only when she finally pulled back.

I shrugged. It was the best answer I had.

She gave me that pitying look, the one the entire school probably had and we walked to my locker. Finn's was just a few down from it, and I saw a little memorial set up at the base of his. There was a photo of him, along with some flowers and notes I was too far away to read.

I stared at the picture. He was looking up into the camera, over a table of wires and gadgets I couldn't fathom, that one strand of hair brushing his cheek.

It was a good photo choice, the perfect one that really encompassed who he was. I should know; I was the one who'd taken it.

Thalia rubbed my shoulders, sighing softly by my ear. "C'mon," she murmured. "Let's go."

* * *

I didn't follow the lecture given in first period. I didn't raise my hand in second period. I stared at the teachers, one after the other, doing my best to concentrate, but it seemed impossible, like trying to see clearly underwater.

I was grateful when lunch came and I could sit somewhere alone for a while. I could use the fresh air.

But as I was about to head to out the back, someone intercepted me, a look of raw sadness shining in her blue eyes. This time, I didn't feel bad for my annoyance as Octavia approached me, carefully, like I was some caged animal. Her awkwardness told me she didn't know what to say in these kinds of situations which was fine. No one ever did.

"Hey, Clarke," she said, falling into step next to me. She was biting her lip, scrutinizing my face, her hand gripping the strap of her backpack. "I, um . . . " She swallowed visibly. "I heard about what happened. Or sort of, it's hard to tell through so many people. I would've texted you, but I honestly didn't know he was your boyfriend until a few days ago."

 _Was. Was. Was._

She glanced at her feet. "So how are you?"

Ah, that question again. I was finding it a stupid thing to ask after someone had died, and usually came from people who hadn't experienced the kind of loss first-hand.

But I did as I always did. I tried to look appreciative as I told her I was okay.

Octavia cast an uncertain look towards the exit. "Do you want to . . . do something?" she asked hesitantly, shrugging her backpack higher. "Maybe it'll help take your mind off it."

I swallowed my sudden retort. "I don't really think that will help."

"You won't know until you try. It might"—

"Do nothing," I interjected. "Believe me, I know. I've tried it all. But I won't forget Finn's dead." It was the first time I'd actually spoken the words and I instantly wished I hadn't. Something grew taut inside of me; a rope threatening to break.

Octavia pursed her lips and color flooded her cheeks. "I know, it's just"—

I held up a hand, uncertain of how much more of this I could take right now. "Please stop, Octavia."

She didn't. "I just want to help you, Clarke. You're my friend and"—

This time, I did scoff. Out loud, unable to hold back anymore.

I whirled on her. "Friends?" I asked incredulously. "Really? You studied at my house once, Octavia, for help on a paper. I'm not so sure that qualifies us as 'friends.'"

Hurt clouded her eyes and her expression turned confused. "What? Clarke, we . . . we _are_ friends."

Maybe this was the anger phase in grief people talked about. I'd experienced some of it after my dad, but not like this. Maybe I was a caged animal after all, because I suddenly lost my self-control. That rope finally snapped.

"No," I deadpanned. "People don't use their _friends_ for their reputation or to make a good impression. They don't use _friends_ to get out of their own house. You're a kid, Octavia. A kid who's had a sad life and I felt like I needed to be nice to you. But excuse me if I'm a little too preoccupied right now to play the role of your big sister."

She recoiled, stepping away from me and I felt a pinch of regret. But not enough to apologize for it. It's what I'd been thinking, even before Finn. I just didn't know how to say it before without hurting her feelings. Now? I found myself caring about that less.

Octavia struggled for a response, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. But before she could get one out, someone else came forward in her stead, stepping in between us.

Bellamy glared down at me, brown eyes lit with anger. His fists were clenched and I had no doubt in my mind that if I were a guy, he would've hit me right then and there.

"What do you think you're doing?" he hissed, husky voice deep and grating.

I met his gaze bluntly, his presence making me instantly tired. I waved him off. "I don't want to deal with this right now." I tried to step around him but Bellamy just grabbed me by the wrist, anchoring me there. "Let me go," I said, tugging at his hold, but it was as strong as steel. Unbreakable as iron.

He pulled me to him, my knuckles nearly touching his chest. His voice dropped to a low murmur. "I told you I wouldn't sit quietly on the sidelines. Hurting my sister? It's a very fast way to make me your enemy."

"Bell, I'm okay," Octavia said, appearing at his side. She swapped glances between me and her brother. "Stop it. It's _fine._ "

Bellamy thought otherwise, looking across at his sister. "There's nothing fine about this. You heard her yourself; she just did all that because she _felt_ _bad for you._ "

I ignored the hard pressure of his fingers against my wrist, unable to tell whether I was more tired or angry at this whole thing, but they were a cataclysmic thing when put together.

I pulled again, forcing his eyes back to me. "So?" I asked, annoyance leaking into my voice. "Do you just threaten anyone who hurts your sister's feelings? Expect them to apologize for, what, speaking the truth? You do realize you can't be here for her every time, right? No, because one day . . . you won't be." I shook my head. Something torrential was happening inside of me; anger and desperation building on each other like Janga blocks. Eventually, it had no choice but to fall over.

"One day, you'll just be gone," I whispered. "Then what? Then all the promises you've made her turns to dust and everything you've ever told her becomes a lie. Then she'll be more scared then she's ever been, always waiting for you to show up. To be there for her. And it's going to kill her every time when it hits her that you won't be." I clenched my hands, so hard my nails dug into the skin. "And the real irony of it all is that you think you're protecting her. When _you're_ the one who's setting her up for the worst pain in her life."

My hand shook in his, Bellamy's eyes now two blazing infernos. I was surprised they didn't burn me where I stood.

I didn't know what he planned to do. That look suggested he wished to do a lot. But he just dropped my hand after a moment. His voice turned into something carved from ice. " _Get. Out_."

It was surprisingly easy to do as he said. It wasn't because I was afraid of him, but because I honestly didn't want to be there, and him ordering me to leave was a good a reason as any for me to do just that. I didn't look at Octavia as I turned my back to him and walked away, ignoring the fixed stares glued to my face as I went.


	14. Shades of Red

**Okay, so, since this fanfiction really has no correlation with the film Ten Things I Hate About You, I will be renaming it. So if you get a notification on an update with a title you don't recognize, it's because I changed the title. Please review (especially if you have any ideas as to what you think it should be called)!**

The sound of rain was deafening. It smacked against the windows, running in rivulets down the panels of glass. I turned up the radio to drown out the sound, but still, the rain shrieked. It pummeled my ears and I raised the volume as high as the knob would allow, the words of _Danny Boy_ becoming indistinguishable as it bellowed in my head.

Yet, it still wasn't enough. The rain kept coming. It drowned the outside world in a thick, heavy deluge.

Worry made my chest grow tight as I stared out the window, unable to see anything through the sheets of water. "Dad?" I asked, hearing the fear in my voice.

 _Crack._

A fissure in the glass appeared, splitting down across the windshield. If I were in the driver's seat, I would've pulled over and I looked across at my dad, stunned he didn't seem to notice the terrible weather. He couldn't see, and I knew with every part of me that we were going to crash.

"Dad?"

But suddenly, it wasn't my dad sitting there anymore. Within the time it took me to blink, his dirty blonde hair had turned brown and unkempt. His eyes darkened from blue to a burning auburn.

I watched, confused, dazed, as a cold foreboding bled into my insides. He looked over at me.

" _Finn_?"

And that's when everything shattered.

* * *

I jolted awake, sweat plastering my shirt to my back, remnants of the nightmare still clear and unfading in my mind. My breathing was rapid and I tried to slow it, balling up the fabric of my comforter.

I knew before I even got out of bed that my mom was already gone for work and I dressed slowly, trying to shake off the terror of the dream.

Today, for the sake of not looking exactly like I felt, I swapped the sweats for jeans. But I still wore a baggy shirt, one that Thalia eyed distastefully when I arrived at school. She usually made comments on my attire, but since Finn, she'd refrained, hugging me instead and asking how I was before jetting off to class.

I sighed as I walked to my own. Once seated, Mr. Owens announced a pop quiz and I tried to calm my sudden jumble of nerves. I found it comically coincidental that the one time I actually chose not to do my homework last night was the day our Trig teacher presented us with a pop quiz.

Once the papers were handed out and I flipped it over to reveal the sets of problems, that nervousness morphed into outright panic. It was instinct to feel pressure about a quiz, but I pulled myself back enough to realize that now it didn't matter. For once, I was ignorant of the answer to the question lying in front of me and the feeling was almost . . . liberating.

 _Screw it,_ I thought, and jotted down the first thing that came to mind.

* * *

"Clarke, have you been okay?" Thalia asked me a couple days later, as class broke out and we went to lunch. I'd just gotten back my grade from the pop quiz from Tuesday and I shoved it deep in my bag before Thalia could catch the red D painted on the front. It was the first grade I'd ever gotten that was lower than an A- and I knew that if she saw it, she'd grill me on what went wrong.

I nodded as enthusiastically as I could. "Yeah," I said, pulling out my lunch money as we entered the cafeteria. "I'm okay. Just like I was yesterday. Just like I was the day before that."

She teased her bottom lip, watching me intently like she expected me to simultaneously blow my top or crumble. "We've been best friends since kindergarten," she uselessly reminded me. "So I can tell when you're lying."

I really loved my friends. I did. But the thing was that friends had the annoying habit of prying, and I wasn't in the mood for that.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. My temper was still in a precarious state, dangling between an empty blackness and a brilliant shade of hatred. It was either one or the other and since I'd been in that blackness before, after my dad, I knew anger was definitely preferable to it.

"I'm not lying," I told her, as I purchased a sandwich I knew I wouldn't be eating. "I'm here, aren't I? In school, being normal." Or as normal as I could be.

Thalia let out a quiet scoff. "Right. I know. You're trying. I see that."

I took a seat at a different table, isolated in the corner. "What do you mean by trying?"

She sat beside me, twisting the cap off her soda. Cherry Coke. That would be going on my ever-growing list of daily reminders, along with Ferris Wheels and Greg Laswell.

"Just," she shrugged noncommittally, "that you're trying to move on. It's been almost a month and I"—

"Yeah, a month," I interrupted. "It's been just a month, Thalia. What, did you think everything would just . . . go back to how it used to be? That thirty days was all that it would take?"

"No, I just . . . think that maybe you should get out. We could go to the mall," she proffered, expression turning hopeful. "I know Borders is having a sale."

That anger reared its ugly head and I pushed my own tray away from me, to the middle of the table. "I'm not thinking about sales," I murmured.

"Maybe you should."

"Maybe you should stop pushing me, Thalia," I suddenly barked.

A few of the surrounding kids glanced up at us and I spotted Octavia among them, sneaking looks our way. Though I couldn't see him, I knew with Octavia here, Bellamy wouldn't be too far behind.

Thalia let out a strained breath, fiddling with her fork. "I'm not trying to push. It's just what's been helping me so I thought it could do the same for you."

But that wasn't helping. In fact, it was probably one of the worst things she could've said. "You lost a friend, Thalia," I said, struggling to keep my voice slow and calm. "And I'm not going to pretend you aren't hurting over that. But I lost more than a friend and it's going to take a lot more than a month and sales to help me out of it."

She simpered, giving me a sad look as she placed a hand gently over mine. "Finn would want you to move on."

I stared across her, amazed. "What he would want?" I asked in disbelief. It was like trying to put out a fire with gasoline, and my restraint dissolved. I snatched my hand back. "No, let me tell you what he would've wanted," I snapped. "Finn wanted to go to college. He wanted to get accepted into a program like ITT and get a degree in electrical engineering. He wanted to get married. He wanted to raise a family. He wanted a life. And now he's dead, so don't you _dare_ sit here and tell me what he would've wanted when all he ever wanted was to live!"

My voice echoed around the now-silent room, every face now turned towards me. Thalia's eyes shined but I was tired of tending to other people's feelings. This anger was something else, driving out the darkness and for now, I was glad for it.

I stood, ignoring the following eyes as I left Thalia behind at the table. Let them stare. Let them speak behind my back. It's what they would do anyways.

Out in the hallway, I shoved through a tight throng of people headed to the cafeteria, my bag swinging behind me.

"Our Princess looks pissed," one guy remarked as they passed.

I froze, halting abruptly in the middle of the hallway.

 _Princess._

That's what they called me. That's what I was to them. I'd always hated that title, but now, after everything that had happened, it'd just become another reminder among the multitudes of them. And like those reminders, I wanted it destroyed.

An idea came to me and I turned on my heel, backtracking the way I'd come. I walked to the bulletin board hanging against the far-side wall, just between the cafeteria and the hallway, decorated in a myriad of notifications and ads.

I retrieved my quiz, paper crumpled and the lead scribbles somewhat smeared. I straightened it out, looking down at it with a strange mix of anger and relief. I'd reached my limit with it all; I was done.

Without hesitating, I uncapped the pen dangling from s string and circled my name in the corner before grabbing one of the blue tacks.

I stuck my paper to the board, right in the center, making the ugly red D on it as clear as possible; so that everyone would see. Using the pen, I scrawled over the body of the quiz in big, blocky letters.

When I was done, I recapped the pen and stepped away. I gazed at it a moment longer before turning my back to it, the words on the paper echoing through my head.

 _Find a new princess._


	15. Plastic Cups

**This is officially my favorite chapter I've written of this so far. Please review!**

My grades had never had such a wide variety of letters penned onto them before.

They'd only ever seen A's, and yet, in the following week, my papers were becoming very intimate with the first portion of the alphabet. Mr. Owens was the only teacher that actually tried to discuss it with me, but it was evident he believed what everyone else did;It was just the grief talking. And it would pass.

My mom even seemed to think it normal, and on the occasions she was home, didn't even bring it up. I knew Thalia would if she'd known, but she hadn't spoken to me since my outburst and I was actually grateful for the space.

Yet, when Friday arrived again, the novelty of imperfect grades had begun to wear thin, along with my anger. Which was dangerous. That meant turning to the darkness and I wanted to keep that emptiness away from me for as long as humanly possible.

Which left me only one, and possibly very stupid, idea.

I was potentially making a grave mistake, but right now it didn't feel that way. I knew something I wanted, and I knew only one way to get it.

Earlier this week, I'd overheard a cluster of clucking girls talking about a party taking place at Gregory Himmon's house. I had no idea who that was, and it took a few interactions with classmates I'd never spoken to for me to get the necessary information.

Gregory Himmons, I discovered, was captain of the football team.

His address was even easier to come by, given out by some girl whose name I was sure started with an S. I actually found it concerning how simple it was, but no one wanted to deny the girl whose boyfriend had just been gunned down in a seven eleven parking lot.

I wouldn't even be attending for the partying anyway. No, what I wanted was only to forget for a little while. My mind ached for some respite. For a moment when I didn't have to be asleep to not think about defibrillator paddles or the wailing echo of sirens. Because I felt if I kept going like I was, I'd eventually snap.

I actually found myself looking forward to it all as I dressed in jeans and that white blouse I'd worn to Octavia's. I debated on whether or not to bring my phone, but the thought of someone disturbing me was reason enough to keep it plugged into the wall.

It was only six when I drove up to the house, but it was already pulsing with life, strobe lights and the pounding of music assaulting all my senses. It had me pondering if I should turn back—give up on this inane plan I'd concocted—but I killed the engine before I could give myself the proper time to think it over. It wasn't like I was being completely reckless; I was acting like a teenager, for the first time in my life.

I got out of the car, the sound louder beyond the inch of glass. It grew worse as I climbed the porch steps and walked through the open door.

I was greeted by a crowd of people, elbows and stomping feet and shouts ringing from around the room. I was stunned a one-floored house had the capacity to hold this many people; I couldn't even tell what the place looked like through the mass of moving bodies and shoved my way through, standing on my toes to see over the sea of heads.

I only stopped when I spotted the "bar,"-just a large keg, erected in the middle of the kitchen. A line of people already had plastic red cups in hand and I found the stack and pulled off my own.

 _Stupid idea,_ reason chided me, but I blocked it out, waiting impatiently as the line thinned and I got my turn at the keg.

The person manning it blinked at me in surprise. Then his face broke out into a wide grin, as he eyes roved over me. "Look who we have here," he beamed, as if taking credit for getting me to this party. "Has the Princess gone rogue?"

So much for the bulletin board.

I extended my cup to him, ignoring his comment. "I'd like a drink."

His grin widened and he gestured to the bottles of some other liquids I hadn't seen, littering the counters. "What'll it be?"

I'd always wondered why people drank. It seemed pointless. Gross. But now I got it. Maybe most people just did it to drown their sorrows. And luckily for me, I had a lot to drown.

"Surprise me."

* * *

It had taken nearly two hours and who-knew-how-many cups for those sorrows to finally sink. It was difficult at the start; the liquor had burned my throat for the first two cups and stung for the second two, but it had been smooth sailing from there. I believed I'd even danced to a few songs before finally stumbling out the front and taking a seat in a chair set up on the lawn.

I'd watched the sky bruise over, transforming from evening into twilight. Now it was practically black outside, a few stars blinking down at me.

I looked away from them, towards the street instead. I was considering getting another cup when a shadow crossed in front of me. I looked up, prepared to tell another perverted classmate of mine to beat it.

But I stopped once I met their dark gaze, as ominous and baleful as ever.

I frowned at him. "Well if it isn't Arthur Fonzarelli," I mumbled, tipping back the cup again. It was weird how the more I drank of this stuff, the better it became. I was sure it tasted terrible at one point. "And just when my mood was starting to improve."

"What are you doing?" Bellamy asked, almost angrily.

I wrinkled my nose, gesturing to the cup in my other hand. "What do you think?"

"I think you're making an idiot out of yourself."

I scoffed. "It's a good thing then that I won't remember any of it."

Bellamy shoved his hands in his leather pockets, glancing back at the house like he was debating whether or not to leave. After a second, he looked back at me, eyeing the cup.

"Want some?" I asked.

His expression turned into one of disgust. "Do you even know what's in that?"

I sighed. "Not exactly, but I can tell you it's definitely not Cherry Coke."

"Unbelievable. Are you just doing this for attention?" he asked, the irritation clear in his voice. "For these people's pity? That's pathetic."

I knew I should've taken offense at that, but I found I oddly didn't care. "I didn't come here for pity. I came for the bootleg liquor." I shook my cup for emphasis. "It tasted pretty bad a while ago, but now," I took another sip, slushing it from cheek to cheek like mouthwash before swallowing. "S'not so bad."

Bellamy pursed his lips, casting a cursory glance around the patio. "Where's your lady in waiting?"

"Thalia?" I grimaced. "Not here."

"How'd you plan to get home?"

I swirled the liquid in the cup, feeling like a kid being chastised. My voice turned small. "Guess I forgot about that little detail."

Bellamy made a sound of exasperation. "Yeah, I guess you did. Have fun figuring it out."

I looked back up just in time to see him walking away and I sighed before swallowing down the last bit of the mystery drink. Time for a refill.

I stood up, and the world suddenly swirled around me. The ground switched places with the sky and I swayed, blades of grass rushing up to meet my face.

Arms went around my waist, stopping me before my head could hit the dirt. The person hauled me upright and steered me back to my chair. They twisted me around and pushed me until I was sitting again, lowering themselves into a crouch in front of me. I was once again staring at Bellamy.

My brows furrowed in confusion. "Weren't you just here?"

He sighed, obviously annoyed.

I discarded my vexation, and held out my cup to him. "Well, as long as you're back, could you get me some more of . . . this?"

Bellamy took the cup from me. "I think you've had enough."

I shook my head, and the world tilted once more. "Did you know there's a study on how liquor increases a person's pre-existing depression and raises the chances of causing it in someone without depression?" I asked, giving him a knowing look. I shook my head again. "But I don't agree. I find booze to be a very helpful alternative."

He chuckled without humor. "I doubt you'll be thinking that in the morning."

"Ah, right." I nodded exuberantly. "My first hangover. But that's what teenagers are supposed to experience, right? The drinking, the parties." I wiggled my fingers at him. "So that's what I'm doing. I'm having my experience."

He scrutinized my face, and I was close enough now to see the black flecks in his eyes; the plethora of freckles scattered across his cheekbones that reminded me of constellations. "With no medical textbook, I see."

I soured, my stare turning into a glower. "Yeah, I'm done with those."

He smiled but it was one of sheer disbelief. "The Princess done with books? I don't think so."

Anger flared inside me. "Not Princess anymore. In case you didn't see the board, I failed two tests this week," I held up the number in fingers.

His brows knitted together, eyes staring at me perplexedly. "I thought your grades were perfect."

I shrugged. "They were. But there's a first time for everything."

"Weren't you . . . focused on med-school?" Bellamy asked skeptically, still crass and brusque but actually asking me a question without making his own retort first.

I waved a hand haplessly at him. "Yup. But then my boyfriend died and I lost interest."

He paused. "So just because he's dead, you've decided to screw yourself over, too? Now you really are pathetic."

I made a smacking sound with my lips and shrugged. "What do you mean? In your book, aren't I getting what I deserve?"

That skepticism blinked out, once again replaced by anger. "I didn't say that," he practically snapped.

Unfazed, I leaned back in the chair, arms dangling over the sides. "Doesn't matter now anyway. It's not like it changes anything."

"So you're just gonna drop out?" he asked irately. "What good does that do anyone?"

What was it with this guy? "You're really confusing, you know that? You're pissed when I get good grades and you're pissed when I get bad grades. I think you just like being pissed."

As if to prove my point, his eyes narrowed in contempt. "You don't know anything."

"But maybe I would if you told me. Honesty is your strong suit after all. Plus," I tried to blink back the hazy cloud dancing in my vision. "It's not like I'm actually going to remember much of this. Intoxication swears me to secrecy."

He clenched his jaw. "You really want to know what I'm pissed at?"

I nodded.

"Fine. I'm pissed that you're our little academic mascot when there are plenty of people with excellent grades and yet _you're_ the one who's given the extra attention because of your mom." He leaned a little closer. "I'm pissed that my sister looked up to someone because she noticed her reputation before recognizing her as a person. I'm pissed at how the expectations you've set for yourself makes you an impeccable example to the rest of us, while those who really work for everything, are left standing in the background." He shut his eyes and took a much needed breath before looking back at me. "Satisfied?"

I considered his words as best I could under influence and stared at him levelly, attempting to gauge his expression. Angry. That's what he was. That's all he ever seemed to be. Angry.

"Yup," I said, smiling at him. "Now was that so hard?"

He didn't look interested in responding and stood up from his crouch. "Where are your keys?" He suddenly asked.

"My what?"

"Your _car_ keys."

It felt like a math question, and after a second, he gave up on asking, going into my jacket pockets himself. I pointed an accusatory finger at his searching hands. "This is kind of invasive."

He retrieved the keys and my brain finally made the connection. "Hey, those are mine!" I nearly shouted, trying to snatch them back.

He gave me a look of pure chagrin, keeping them out of my reach with ease. "Yeah, like I'm gonna let you behind a wheel."

I blew a raspberry, giving up the fight. "Yeah. With my luck, I'll just swerve and kill someone on the road."

"Or yourself."

I shook my head. "Doubt it. I have a habit of not dying in those kinds of situations." I tried to pull myself up but the world seemed fixed on keeping me off my feet. Bellamy grabbed my shoulders before it could have its way with me.

Gripping my arm, he started walking, tugging me alongside him. He asked me where I'd parked but honestly, I couldn't remember what kind of car I drove, much less where I put it so he had to resort to leaving me on the sidewalk as he scouted the street, pressing the unlock button. Eventually, one of the rear lights flashed and he dragged me to a blue car.

"Oh, yeah," I said, staring stupidly at the passenger door. "This one is mine." I looked over at Bellamy as he pulled himself into the driver's seat. He leaned over and popped my door open.

I bent down, using the frame for support. "My Mom bought it for me," I added.

"Fascinating. Get in."

When I didn't respond as fast as he apparently wanted me to, Bellamy latched a hand around my wrist and tugged me inside. "Watch your head."

I plopped down in the seat beside him and only remembered to close the door when he told me to. Hands on the wheel, he started the car and pulled out of the lot as I rested my head against the glass, staring sadly back at the house. I'd really wanted that refill.

When we turned down the road and the strobe lights disappeared around the corner, I leaned my head back, staring up at the car ceiling. "Where are we going?" I asked dazedly.

Bellamy let out a long, aggravated sigh. As we came to a stop at the red light, he turned to me. "I'm taking you home." He hesitated, and a look of warning came into his eyes. "You do know where home is, right?"

I crossed my arms over my chest and closed my eyes as a wave of dizziness swept over me. "Yeah."

"What's your address?"

"I don't need an address. I'll recognize my house when I see it."

I sneaked a look at him just in time to see his hands tighten over the wheel. His knuckles turned white. "Give me your phone."

I shut my eyes again before he could catch me looking. "Don't have it. I left it at the house."

Bellamy fell quiet. When he finally spoke, his voice came out strained, like he was a second away from exploding. "Are you kidding me?"

My fingers thrummed against my forearm. "If I were, it'd be a stupid joke."

He blew out a very, very slow breath. "Why wouldn't you bring your phone?"

"Because I didn't want to be interrupted. And the last thing I want is to answer a call inebriated."

"Won't your mom be worried or something?"

I smirked. "She's still at work. I bet she won't even be home tonight."

Again, I peeked over at him, and this time, some of the anger seemed to leave his face.

His lips flattened into a thin line and he leaned back, too, as if in forfeit. "You're really not leaving me much of a choice, are you?" he asked. "I don't have the GPS in this car anymore, so I don't know which route to take from here. And yet you can't give me a street name? A three-digit code?"

I deliberated, but the sudden exhaustion was making it difficult to think. "My house is big," I offered.

The light turned green and he hit the gas.

"My place it is then."

* * *

I found myself in a studio apartment that smelled of aftershave. It was an open space, furnished in simple, eclectic décor. A tired grey couch was placed in the center of the room, facing towards a small TV and away from the small kitchen occupying the corner to my left. There was a door on my other side that I guessed led into the bedroom. The far side wall was composed entirely of paneled glass, offering a good view of the downtown intersection.

I blinked a few times, my memory of the drive a bit fuzzy as Bellamy pulled me inside. My balance was a wreck and he had to hold onto me to stop me from sliding to the floor. I was beginning to believe him about regretting my decision to drink.

Bellamy dropped my keys on the counter and went to the kitchen and piloted me through the door. He flicked on a switch that was wired to a lamp. It revealed a twin bed covered in a tangle of sheets, piles of books strewn around the floor.

He pushed down on my shoulders until I was sitting on the corner of the mattress. Then he disappeared from the room, returning a minute later with a cup of water. He set it on the nightstand and came back over to my corner of the bed.

Bellamy stared down at me, not even bothering to conceal his resentment so obviously shining in those dark eyes of his. He bent down and pulled off my shoes, tossing them to the side.

I watched him, feeling strangely bemused. "I think I misjudged you," I thought out loud. "I mean, I still think your manners could use a lot of work, but you're not really the delinquent I thought you were."

"And yet, _you're_ exactly the kind of person I originally thought you were."

I made a "pfft"ing noise. "Why? Because I changed my mind about being a doctor?"

"Because you're only thinking about yourself. What about all the money your parents spent entertaining that fickle hope of yours?"

"I'm not becoming a doctor because I don't want to be one. I'm not becoming a doctor because I _can't_ be one." My light mood dissipated and I looked at my hands, remembering them bathed in blood. "I'm not the person that saves people. I'm the person that watches them die."

Bellamy placed his hands on his knees, gazing up at me. "Based on what? Just because your boyfriend bit the dust?"

I didn't even feel insulted by the tactless remark, staring straight through him, glad that right now, the alcohol numbed what inhibitions I usually had.

I swallowed, sudden emotion tightening around my throat like a noose. "Do you know what it's like to . . . put everything of yourself into something? To believe with all that you are that what you're doing will actually make a difference for someone? And then, when you really need it, after you've put years into reading and watching the material and thinking that you'd be able to do what you'd need to do, when it really counts, . . . you fail. You watch as a person you love dies." I laughed. "You, an aspiring _doctor_. But that's okay, because you'll just study harder for the next time. You'll read and watch everything you possibly can. You'll get perfect grades and you'll be prepared." I shook my head as my voice cracked, vision blurring. "And against all odds, it does happen again. And you fail, again."

I nodded to myself, biting hard on my lip. "So if that makes me selfish for not wanting to deal with that for a third time, then I guess I'm selfish." I flopped down on the bed, trading the image of Bellamy for his tiny ceiling light. "Maybe I could take up art, or something."

I heard as Bellamy stood, moving to the side of the bed. His face swam above me, his head a curly mess. He detangled one of the blankets and flattened it over me.

"So have I done it yet?" I murmured tiredly, tilting my chin up to see him more clearly.

He shot me a glance, too focused on the blanket and making sure I didn't fall off the bed to pay my question much mind.

"Done what?" he asked absentmindedly.

I sighed. "Lost enough. You said I couldn't talk to you like this because you'd lost more, but what about now? _Have_ I lost enough?"

Now he did look at me. His hands stilled and I swore there was a touch of sympathy in his gaze. For a second, I thought he'd actually give me an answer. But he just said, "Go to sleep, Clarke. We'll talk about that tomorrow."

"But I won't remember any of this tomorrow."

He reached for the lamp's switch. "Exactly."


	16. The Morning After

**Next chapter! Please review! And yes, the next update for the 99 is coming, I'm just behind. Plus it's almost over. But it will be finished.**

There was a strange sense of wrongness before I even opened my eyes. It wasn't just because my body felt like it hated me. It wasn't just because my head pounded as if someone were using my skull as their own personal drum.

It was because of the blankness that came with it all.

I peeled back my lids, groaning loudly as I stared up at the ceiling. There was something off about it and it took me a moment for reality to hit.

It wasn't my ceiling.

I didn't recognize the dainty, singular light or the poor quality of it, and sudden panic flooded me, making the pain in my head that much worse. I froze beneath the knitted blanket resting over me, my heart stuttering in my chest.

 _What happened?_

Desperately I tried to think back to the following day, clawing for the memories that weren't there. Crowds . . . loud music . . . alcohol.

A _lot_ of alcohol.

 _Oh no._

I lurched upright, my head shouting in protest and I flinched at the lance of pain that shot through me. I looked around, at the small, cluttered room, as foreign as the previous evening had been. Fear ran its cold fingers up my spine and I shivered. Slowly, I roved my hands over myself from under the blanket, feeling a shred of relief that at least I was clothed.

On the nightstand was a cup of water and, though still panicked, my throat ached. I took the glass gingerly in my hands, peering into it as if I expected to see some kind of discoloration. But my tongue was so dry it stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I took a small sip ensuring it tasted normal before downing half the cup.

"Good," a voice came from the doorway. "You're awake."

I looked up, just in time to see the last person I ever expected to find in the same bedroom as me.

Bellamy was leaning against the frame in a white tee and sweats, dark gaze studying my face.

I choked on my water, droplets spewing from my mouth. I set the glass down, hacking into my hand and staring back at him wide-eyed. "What are you—How—?" I was cut off by another fit of coughing. The force of it made my vision blur.

Bellamy shoved a hand in his pocket, eyeing me distastefully. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't asphyxiate in my bed."

The coughing worsened.

 _His bed?_

I swallowed, struggling to get a grip on my lungs. "Sure," I wheezed, a hand pressed to my throat. "As soon as you tell me _what it is I'm doing in it."_

He shrugged glancing away from me and towards the wall like I was boring him. "You were sleeping."

"And?"

"And nothing."

"We didn't . . . ?" I couldn't even say it, too terrified by what his answer could be and my hands tightened over the too-thin blanket. I wanted to believe I wouldn't go to that level with someone I didn't know, much less _him._ But how was I supposed to know what drunk me would do? I had no idea what I was like without my concrete reserves.

Bellamy actually rolled his eyes, shooting me a demeaning look. "Given our _very_ brief history together, do you honestly think that if I was interested in that, _you_ would be the first person I'd go to for it?"

I bit my lip in thought. He had a very decent point. "So . . . we didn't . . ." I gave a small shake of my head, gesturing between us, "do anything?"

He smiled, but it was tantalizing and dripping with condensation. "Rest assured, the only thing I considered doing with you, was leaving you on the Himmon's front lawn."

"So then you, what?" I looked around the room like his books on Government would provide me with the answers. "Just took me to your apartment?"

"I took you to my apartment because it seems the Princess can't hold her liquor all that well."

His words jarred some murky recollection, of empty cups and something that tasted terrible. Realization dawned on me and I felt my cheeks flush. Right. Drinking. My grand plan to forget my daytime horrors. I looked at the blanket. "That was . . ."

Bellamy pushed off the wall and came over to me. My spine straightened and I watched him warily as he approached, stopping at my side of the bed. He bent low, until his face was close to mine; until I could see the flare of his lashes and the smatter of freckles. "Honestly, I don't care." He reached over and grabbed a handful of the blanket. In one fluid movement, he tore it off me, casting it to the corner of the room. "I don't care why you were drunk. I don't care if you're embarrassed because you're a bad drunk. I do however care that it's noon . . . and you're still in my bed."

"It's _what_?" I leaned forward so fast that Bellamy jolted back before our foreheads could collide against each other. A painful pressure blossomed over the back of my skull, accompanied by that banging and I hissed out a breath, forcing myself to relax. "It's noon?" I asked in a much quieter voice.

Bellamy leaned away from me, his expression annoyed. "That's what I said."

I sighed, rubbing my temples with my index fingers. My only chance was that my mom was still at work, hopefully working on someone's fistula late into the night.

I looked from my stained blouse back to Bellamy, onyx eyes still on me, flashing with displeasure. "I . . . don't suppose you have any aspirin?" I murmured.

He raised an eyebrow and his voice turned sardonic. "Do I look like a pharmacist to you?"

I couldn't think of a smart remark through the pain. "Never mind, then." I tried for standing up. Though the floor didn't bend unnaturally, my head felt like someone had replaced my brain for bricks. It was hard to lift up as I shuffled forward, wincing with every step. He walked ahead of me, snatching up my shoes and dropping them on the floor outside his bedroom.

I gazed around at the place. The walls seemed old and rickety and the band posters were yellowed with age. It was prejudice of me, but I anticipated some vulgar pictures, not ones of Jon Bon Jovi.

I lowered myself to the floor and pulled on my shoes, careful not to jostle my head too much. I cast a small glance up at Bellamy. "Shouldn't we, I don't know, talk about this?"

He walked over to a hangar and grabbed his jacket. He shrugged it on. "What's there to talk about? You were drunk, you slept here. That's it," Bellamy deadpanned. "And now that you're sober, I'd like you to leave."

I blanched, hands stilling over my shoelaces. "You're _kicking_ me out?"

He pointed his thumb towards the door. "I'm going, which means you can't stay here. So technically, yeah."

I nodded. I wouldn't lecture him on anything right now, not when I was in his place after sleeping all night in his bed and smelling of what I could only guess was deodorant. As much as his ill-temper contradicted it, he'd done a noble thing, and I was still imposing on his privacy and what minimal hospitality he was capable of extending me.

"Okay," I said. "So then you can't talk about this now. That's fine, I—"

An irritated noise came from Bellamy as he paused in front of the door. "Let's not talk about it _at all._ In fact, let's agree not to talk about it. Ever. You were drunk. You stayed here. Nothing happened, other than an unfortunate rolling incident in the middle of the night that may leave you a bruise. So there's your talk. Now . . . please," the word came out strangled. "Let's go."

I swallowed back what I really wanted to say and trudged over to the front door. He swiped something off the counter and I saw a flash of familiar gold.

"Hey, are those my keys?"

"Yeah."

"Can I have them back?"

But Bellamy just opened the door and tilted his head towards it. "My bike is still at the Himmon's. You owe me a ride."

"Then shouldn't I get the keys if I'm going to be driving?"

He laughed, a low, throaty sound that reverberated deep from within his chest. "You may be sober, but you're still hungover. What do your studies say about driving in that condition?"

"My what?"

It was clear Bellamy had reached the end of his rope, because he suddenly took me by the arm and half-dragged me out of the apartment and into the hall. I grimaced at the eruption of pain that stabbed at my temples.

Bellamy looked down at me for a second, like he was trying to gauge my expression. Then he let go of me and disappeared back in his apartment, exiting a moment later. He tossed something at me from over his shoulder as he locked the door.

I saw a blur of white and I was able to catch it before it hit some other part of me, like my face. I glanced down at the label.

It was a bottle of aspirin.

* * *

I knew when I saw her car in the driveway that I was dead. Maybe it was a good thing then that she worked at a place with a morgue—made disposal more practical.

I looked awkwardly over at Bellamy as he killed the engine and got out of the car. My chest clenched at the thought of my mom seeing him and for one irrational moment, I thought he planned to come into the house with me. But he just stopped in front of the car, waiting until I got out. When I did, he handed me the keys.

"Are you walking back?" I asked, feeling both surprised and a little guilty.

As if to demonstrate, Bellamy started for the sidewalk, not even bothering to look back at me as he said, "I trust you can get yourself to the front door."

And that was it. He left me standing there as he walked away at a leisurely pace, all hulking leather and clenching fists.

I blew out my breath as I faced the house again. I supposed there was little hope she hadn't noticed my empty bed, but it was noon, and she had no other reason to be home than to think I was in a ditch somewhere.

Better to get it over with.

"Where were you?" Came her demanding voice, as soon as I entered the house. My head ached at the loud shrill and I closed the door gently behind me, turning to face her in a slow circle.

"I was . . . out." _Out cold for an entire night in the bed of a lawful man I didn't know, much less liked._

She eyed me speculatively, hand on her hip, the complete image of any disapproving mother. "Out? To where?"

There was little sense in lying about everything. "A party," I admitted, deciding to give her some piece of the truth. "I was at a party."

Her face wrinkled in disbelief and she walked over to me. She didn't have to walk far before the smell hit her.

"Have you been drinking?"

What could I say? The keg spilled on me? Some guy poured his cup on my head and a quart of it got in my mouth? I couldn't really fake that one, especially when she had easy access to urine and blood tests, so I nodded.

"You . . ." she seemed genuinely shocked by this, like I'd just committed some nefarious act. "Why are you doing this to yourself? The Clarke I know would never"—

"It was a one-time thing, Mom," I said a bit brazenly. "It won't happen again."

She went on as if she hadn't heard me. "This is because of Finn. Should I take you to see someone? Counselor? A . . . support group?"

I made a face at her, puckering my lips in disgust. "No. I don't need a support group."

"I think you need _something,_ Clarke. You weren't like this after your father. But now your grades are slipping, you're being irresponsible; coming home hungover—"

"Once. This is _once._ "

"How can I be sure of that?"

I recoiled at the insult. Really? After all I'd done, one slip up and she deemed me unreliable? "You could trust me on it, like you have everything else."

Mom shook her head. "It's been weeks. I know from Mr. Owens that you haven't been studying. Clarke, you're falling behind. When your father died"—

"Dad didn't die this time!" I suddenly shouted. "Okay? _Finn._ Finn died. I know you want to help but you"-

I was interrupted by her pager, buzzing on the counter. Mom eyed it, and I had the distinct feeling that even if I'd come home drunk or bleeding, she'd still manage to answer her pager and return to work in the morning. Ever the perfect doctor.

She snatched up the small device and looked at the ID. I knew it was coming before she even spoke. "We'll discuss this later."

"When?" I asked, trying and failing to mask the edge in my voice.

Mom gave me a sad look, tainted with disappointment. I imagined it was the same expression I wore, looking back at her. "Later," she repeated.

And in her eyes, that was enough.

But it wasn't in mine.

* * *

Three days and a dozen aspirins later, I made my way down the school's halls, keeping my eyes peeled for one tall, brooding figure.

As much as I'd tried to ignore the guilt gnawing at me over the rest of the weekend, I felt like it would've been cruel, very _Bellamy-like,_ to completely ignore what had taken place on Friday. Though I wanted to dismiss it, I couldn't, not with those dangerous what-if scenarios playing on loop in the back of my mind. Too many things could've happened and I hated being in debt to anyone. I didn't like another person having something to hold over my head, waiting for them to collect their favor. It left a door open for Bellamy to ask something of me, and even though he seemed like he wouldn't take me up on it, this was him I was talking about.

And I wanted that door closed.

It didn't take me long to find him, rifling through his locker at lunch and I hesitated a moment, but pushed through it. I came to a halt behind him, ignoring the instinct that told me to back slowly away.

I rose on my toes and tapped his shoulder.

Bellamy twisted his head around to look at me and when his eyes met mine, they darkened. He yanked out a book from his locker, shoving it deep in his bag.

"You've heard the expression, 'go our separate ways', right?" he asked, voice drowning in sarcasm. "I'd really like to do that, but I can't when you keep showing up."

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep myself from saying anything I knew I'd later regret. I took a prepared breath, rocking on my heels. "I understand that, I only wanted to thank you for the other nigh"—

Bellamy whirled around and stepped toward me, the sudden proximity interrupting my words. He glanced around us before glaring down at me. "I told you we weren't going to speak of that. _Especially_ here." He looked around again. "The last thing I need is for this getting out and for people misinterpreting it."

I pursed my lips. At least in this, I could understand where he was coming from. "Right. I know." I heaved a sigh, my voice turning rushed to keep him from stopping me again. "I just wanted to see if there was any way I could say thanks. You're not exactly a likable person but you aren't completely hate-able and I'd just like to do something to repay you."

He hefted his bag higher, still glowering at me. "Is that how you express your appreciation to people?"

My self-control cracked. "Usually the people I have appreciation for are a lot nicer than you," I said before I could think better of it. "But I'm trying here."

He seemed to deliberate, looking at me with a mixed expression of disdain and cynicism. "Octavia," he finally said, shoulders relaxing slightly.

"What about her?"

His expression turned caustic as he stared at me impatiently.

My eyebrows shot up. "Wait, you want me to _help_ with Octavia? I thought you didn't want me around her."

"I don't," he agreed. "But I realized—with her help— that you weren't having the best day last week and it wasn't fair to be that . . . harsh on you." The words seemed to take physical exertion as he spoke them through gritted teeth, a line forming between his brows. "She has some kind of Winter Formal coming up and needs a dress. She doesn't want to ask Maureen and It's not like I'm any good with that stuff."

I appraised him, my lips parting in surprise. "You want me to help her find a dress?" I asked slowly. I looked down at my own wardrobe, my oversized jacket hanging loosely past my waist; at my ratty black sneakers I'd had and worn for years. I met his eyes again. "And you think I'm the person most suited for that task?"

Bellamy shook his head exasperatedly and started to move away from me. "You're the one who asked, but if you don't want to do it"-

I reached for his arm and grabbed it before he could walk away. His gaze shot back to me at the contact and I instantly dropped my hold. "No, it's fine." I waved a hand. "Dress shopping. With Octavia. That's . . . _great._ I'm totally on board."

He nodded at me curtly. "Good." He looked as if ready to leave again, but stopped. "Oh, and one more thing," he whispered, his tone lowering a few decimals. "I may have understood your little outburst last time. But if you hurt my sister's feelings again"—

I raised my palms to him. "Then I get demoted from friend to foe, I got it."

Bellamy smirked derisively, as if he were laughing at some joke I couldn't hear. "We aren't friends, Princess," he said, shutting his locker and turning his back on me. "Don't start getting that confused."


	17. Bare

**I hope this doesn't feel like a filler chapter; I prefer having chapters that are only necessary to the story, and I found this necessary. Anyway, please review! (And the 99 is coming, it's just arduous to write because I have to rewatch the episode to make it an accurate rendition, but I will have it done, so just bear with me please!)**

I was under strict instruction to meet Octavia in front of Macy's, through the text messages she'd sent me after my apology. Unfortunately for myself, no one bothered to specify which Macy's, so I ended up twenty minutes late and running recklessly through the place. Worse than that, when I finally did locate Octavia behind a rack of clothing, I drew up short at the sight of Bellamy standing at her side.

"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered under my breath, plastering what I hoped was a decent smile to my face.

Octavia's eyes found mine and she beamed, an excited hop jumping into her feet. "Thank goodness you're here. I thought you . . ." _bailed,_ I mentally added with a twinge of guilt.

I shook my head. "Nope. Just got lost. I'm not a mall regular." I looked over at her brother. "I see you brought . . . Bellamy." There was no kind way to point it out.

She turned dubious. "I told him he didn't have to come."

I nodded, trying my best to look respectful. "So why—?"

"Supervision," Bellamy said simply, standing in that usual, intimidating way of his; hands fisted in his leather jacket, head high, heat in his eyes.

"'Supervision'?" I repeated. "I can supervise Octavia just fine."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "I know. I'm supervising you."

I stared at him for a moment and couldn't keep the small laugh that slipped past my lips. But when he didn't partake in my humor, my smile dropped. "Are you serious?"

His eyebrows quirked up. "Does this look like I'm joking?"

I exchanged a glance with Octavia, who was pursing her lips uncomfortably. I didn't miss the apology she mouthed at me when she was sure Bellamy couldn't see.

* * *

"I was thinking of something blue," Octavia told me as she rifled through a long row of gowns. I cringed at the cleavage and flashiness of most of them, feeling an infinitesimal shred of sympathy for Bellamy. But then I remembered his supervision claim and promptly lost that feeling.

"How about this one?" asked Octavia, holding up a short, azure dress.

I nodded. "Looks nice."

"You said that on the last four."

I shrugged. At least I hadn't lied; all of her choices did look nice, for dresses. So far, we'd been in the junior section of the store for about an hour and I'd gone from the supervised adult, to the supervised clothing rack, hitching up the bottom of the gowns to make sure the cloth didn't drag. It was becoming hard to appreciate any of them.

Octavia, oblivious to my struggles, continued to sift through more, but I forced myself to give her the benefit. This was her first dance. At a new school. Most girls _would_ be like her.

"Did you have a Freshman Formal?" She asked me, as she took off a longer gown by the hanger.

My arms were starting to cramp from holding them out but I gritted my teeth, casting a wary glance at Bellamy, who was seated by the changing rooms with his head resting against the wall and his eyes closed. It was weird seeing him without his trademark smirk or glare. Unsettling to see him appear somewhat . . . normal.

But then again, what was normal?

I looked back to Octavia, moving with her as she scouted the last isle. "Yup," I said, as she came up empty-handed. She started for the changing rooms and I breathed a sigh of relief. Like some Blood Hound, Bellamy stirred and looked over at us as we passed through the door.

"What'd you wear?" Octavia grilled.

"Nothing."

She gave me a wide-eyed look and I mentally kicked myself. I glanced back at Bellamy who was giving me a _very_ disapproving look, that glare back in its rightful place. "No," I said quickly, "not . . . not _nothing_. I didn't go. I stayed at home."

The horror in Octavia's eyes didn't leave and I didn't have to look to know Bellamy was still glaring at my back. "Why?" she admonished.

An itch was starting at my nose, but my hands were so buried, I couldn't reach it. "I'm not a big . . . party person."

A dry laugh sounded from behind me and I looked over at Bellamy again, at the smile carved from sheer mockery on his freckled face. "Do you have something you'd like to add?" I asked him.

Bellamy cleared his throat, leaning his head back once more. "Nope."

"What about your prom?"

"No."

"Not even with F"—She abruptly cut herself off, smashing her lips together, but it hadn't been soon enough and something painful bloomed across my chest. It was a pain I got whenever my dad was mentioned, but now it was Finn, too, like both were bleeding into each other, unable to be singled out.

The reminder was a cold draft, unexpected and unwelcomed.

"Sorry," Octavia said.

I cleared my throat. "C'mon, I want to see how these look," I said, keeping my voice light as I extended her the mountain of dresses. Being a foot shorter than me, she practically disappeared beneath it.

She stumbled to one of the rooms and stuffed the gowns inside. Then she jetted back out. "Hold on," she said, disappearing out the door. I stared after her perplexedly, and took one of the seats by the mirrors, pillowing my head with a hand.

Octavia returned a few seconds later, dress in tow. Except that this one wasn't of the many shades of blue she'd hoarded, but a brilliant yellow, hinging on the color of gold.

She stopped in front of me and held it out. "Try it on."

I stilled, and shook my head. "What? No. No, I'm okay."

Octavia's eyes narrowed, and I could suddenly see the resemblance between the two Blake siblings. She had an authority of her own for someone so young and seemingly so pleasing. "Try. It. On."

I wanted to argue and I cast a look out the door to where Bellamy stood now. He was leaning against the door frame like he had that morning, looking at me.

I gave him a pleading look. But he just made an exaggerated drinking motion with his hand, before crossing his arms over his chest again, waiting expectantly.

I shot him a glare as I took the dress in my hands, waves of resentment emanating from me. Octavia grinned and flitted off to her room while I pursed my lips and stood up, glowering at Bellamy. "Playing Barbie was not one of the clauses," I quipped.

Bellamy smirked and this time, I thought I saw a glimmer of amusement in his obsidian eyes. "You're the one who wanted to help." He swept his hand at me, gesturing me to go and I sent him another scowl before disappearing into one of the changing rooms after Octavia.

With a long sigh, I disrobed, down to my underwear and bra, the metal bird jostling against my throat. I didn't want to take that off.

I pulled the dress over my head, the material soft against me like silk, thin as water. I managed to zip it up on my own and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

It was a pretty gown, if you liked that sort of thing. Sleeveless, empire bodice, running down the length of my body in currents of gold. It was a nice blend with my blonde hair and light eyes, but I didn't much care for the neckline. The V-neck ran past my collarbone and to my chest, deep enough to showcase the scar splicing upwards. The year had given it sufficient time to heal from the shard of glass that had once been embedded there, but it still ached with a strange ghost pain, whenever the reminders showed up. Like my skin remembered how it felt to bleed.

I instantly missed my jacket, but willed myself to open the door and step out.

"Okay, Octavia," I said as I rounded the corner. She already had on one of the dresses-a deep, royal blue,- that fit her in all the right places. Her eyes went from looking in the mirror at herself to looking at me, and her mouth dropped open.

"Whoa," she said, twirling around to face me. She started at my bare feet and drew her inspection upwards. "I knew there was a girl under there!"

I grimaced. In my periphery, I glimpsed Bellamy and looked across at him. For once, the glare seemed to be snuffed out, smirk gone. He almost looked surprised and it struck me that he was looking at me, looking at the _scar._

"What do you think, Bell?" Octavia asked him.

At his name, Bellamy blinked, the heat returning to his eyes. He shook his head and looked at his sister. "You look good. A little short, though, don't you think?"

She rolled her eyes. "I meant Clarke."

He didn't look at me as he said bluntly, "Fine." He shrugged. "It's just a dress."

I grimaced, stifling the urge to glare at him again. I settled for a small nod.

Octavia waved off her brother and appraised me. She hadn't even noticed until she was this close, surveying the material, eyeing the necklace. "Oh," she mumbled, gaze stopping at the scar and it instantly throbbed, as if hating being noticed. As if the metal bird and scar ached as one.

"What's that from?" she asked.

I bit the inside of my cheek, wishing I had my jacket now more than ever. Right now, I felt naked and vulnerable, and I hated that feeling.

"Just a cut." I murmured, turning away from her and acting like I was actually marveling at the dress.

"Looks like it was bad."

I swallowed at the typhoon of memories that surged through the floodgates, filling up my mind: A mangled web of metal. A scattered street full of broken glass. A curtain of rain, undisturbed as it mixed with red.

"Yeah," I said. "It was."

"How did-?"

"O, come on," Bellamy interjected, cutting her off. He sighed impatiently. "I don't want to be here all day."

That seemed to distract her and she nodded, hurrying back to her dressing room.

I met Bellamy's eyes. For a second, the fire in them abated, morphing into something studious. He'd seen the scar, yet he didn't ask. Didn't point it out. Didn't ask me how it got there.

It was like he already knew.

I looked at him for a moment longer before I broke away from his gaze and headed back to my own room, grateful when I had my jacket back in my hands.


	18. Salt and Rain

**Is the development okay right now? I know Bellamy's a jerk, but he has his reasons, which will come to light soon. And frankly, I like the hostile exchange between the two. Please review!**

I wasn't in the best mood when I was finally released from the mall's clutches, with Octavia in tow after her insistence to walk me to my car. But my mood crippled even more when Octavia said her goodbyes and I hurriedly flopped in the driver's seat and started the engine.

But it didn't stay started for long.

It gave me its best, grumbling in struggle, but eventually gave up the fight. I shook my head as the engine died, feeling one loose thread away from snapping.

With a strained sigh, I popped the hood and got out of the car. A breeze caught on my hair, winding it around my neck and I cast a glance up at the colored sky, blues and purples blooming over the swollen clouds like bruises. Fear trickled down my spine.

I'd have to hurry.

I propped open the support rod and scanned through the basic functions I knew. Oil, gas. Both were fine. I pulled out my phone, ready to press the person I had on speed dial.

And froze.

Just like that, I'd forgotten. For one second, from old habits, that Finn was dead. He was great with cars, and any problems I ever had with them he always insisted I take it up with him.

"Body shops will just overcharge you," he'd said with a devious smirk. "But I think you can sway me to give you the girlfriend discount."

My breathing turned shaky and I swallowed. That darkness lapped around me like waves on a beach, cold and uncontrollable. I looked back up at the sky.

"What's wrong?" Octavia's voice came from behind me, and I turned around to her. She was paused at the passenger side of what I assumed was the Roffan's white Honda.

I tried to wave her off. "It's nothing. Minor car issue," I called back to her. "I'll just call Triple A." The words hurt-another reminder- but I swallowed the barbs and dialed.

Footsteps echoed on the pavement and I glanced back in time to see Bellamy coming over, that annoyed expression on his face. He stopped beside me, casting his sister loitering behind him a look before peering into my hood.

I lowered my phone from my ear. "I don't need your help," I told him, feeling irritated myself at the intrusion. Especially since it was obvious he didn't want to be here.

He didn't complain, just glanced at me from the corner of his eye and leaned over the hood, digging around the insides with nimble fingers.

I scanned the sky again. Anxiety curled itself around my heart.

"Did you check the fuel?" Bellamy asked, moving on to another part of the engine. Curls of brown hair fell into his eyes and he pointlessly swiped at them with the back of his hand. It left a dark smudge on his cheek.

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Oil?"

"It's fine."

"Battery?"

I shrugged uncertainly. "I think I should just call Triple A. You aren't really a mech"—

"Hold on." He reached deeper into the car, like a surgeon would a body. Careful, meticulous. Maybe people were like cars. Maybe doctors were like mechanics.

He pulled his hand back, resting them at the edge of the hood. "Spark plugs," he said.

I blinked. "What?"

He looked at me. "It's your spark plugs. You have crappy spark plugs."

I bit my lip, exchanging a glance between my phone and him. "So should I call Triple A or not?"

His eyebrows rose. "Well, I don't know. Do you know how to fix faulty spark plugs?"

"No."

"Do you have a pair of spark plugs on you?"

"Um, no?"

"Then I think you just answered your own question." He slammed down the hood.

"Thanks for the . . . help," I muttered, trying to keep the sarcasm from leaking into my voice. I punched in the number again and gave the person on the other end my information. Bellamy took that as his cue to leave, but he didn't get very far before Octavia stepped in front of him. She wagged a finger at her brother, as if she were scolding a dog. "We'll wait."

I shook my head. "That's really not"—

Octavia shot me a stern look. "Car problems take hours to fix, and we can't just let you walk home. Right, Bell?"

Bellamy didn't say anything as he stared down at his sister. I sensed some hidden battle exchanged between the two, warring in their eyes. It was hard to tell who was winning, but I knew it was Octavia when she finally looked away and smiled at me. It was clear the younger Blake won often.

She clapped her hands together. "Good. We'll wait for Triple A, they can take your car, and we'll give you a ride home." She grinned at us.

It took nearly a half hour for the tow truck to show up and we spent the time in silence, other than Octavia's occasional questions and remarks on cars and dresses.

She alerted me to the truck when it pulled into the lot and I waved it over. The burly man in overalls stepped out and I gave him my papers and the diagnosis before he could fumble inside the hood. He took them and I filled out a paper as he tied off my car and pulled it up the truck's backside. Nearly another half hour later, I watched both it and my car drive away.

The clouds had finally reached full capacity and it started to rain as Octavia dragged me to their vehicle. Each droplet that fell on me was like a brand, burning holes into my skin. The anxiety grew worse as Octavia insisted I take the front seat and we started off, raindrops sprinkling over the windshield.

"That was perfect timing," Octavia said from the back, staring out of her own window. Her mood was the sun in comparison to mine and Bellamy's, as dark and dreary as the clouds overhead. When neither of us responded, Octavia sat forward. "Thanks for coming today, Clarke."

I glanced at her from over the shoulder of my seat, somewhat distractedly. I couldn't get the sound of rain out of my head, praying that it didn't get any heavier. "Oh, yeah," I told her. "No problem."

"I'll drop off Octavia first," Bellamy said, flipping on the wipers. "Then you. Fortunately, I know how to make it back to your house," he added ambiguously.

"Wait, isn't this your . . . foster parents' car?" I asked Octavia, a little hesitant.

Bellamy was the one who answered. "They loan it to me from time to time. Maureen doesn't like me driving my bike in weather like this."

I couldn't help but think that kind. Very motherly. I wondered if Bellamy saw it that way, too. "That's nice of her."

Bellamy frowned, like a teenager with an overbearing mom. "That's Maureen," he said.

But I got the distinct feeling he liked it more than he was letting on.

* * *

By the time we pulled up to the Roffan's drive, the rain had doubled in force. My fingers were curled into my hands, nails digging into the palms, but I didn't feel it. I barely registered Octavia as she said her goodbyes and hurried into the rain, using herself to shield the bagged dress instead of the other way around.

Bellamy ensured she made it into the house before driving off.

I struggled to keep my racing heart under control, thinking of other things like what I would be making for dinner tonight. It didn't work and the farther we went, the rain grew harder. I felt dizzy.

Bellamy reached forward and turned on the radio.

"No!" I practically shouted, batting his hand out of the way and abruptly shutting it off.

He looked sidelong at me, eyes incredulous, that smudge still on his cheek. "What's your problem?"

I quickly shook my head, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Nothing," I stammered. "Just . . . no music. Please."

His hands clenched on the wheel. "This is my car."

"You said it was Maureen's."

"It's mine during the loaning," he said. But he didn't turn the radio back on.

Despite the chill, sweat beaded on my forehead and pooled on my back. Images flashed through my mind in Polaroid frames. Crushed glass. Splatters of red turning pink in the rainwater.

 _The summer's gone and all the flowers are dying._

I shut my eyes. Reopened them. I mentally ticked off the physiological changes, trying desperately to focus on something other than the deluge of rain. Elevated heart rate, increased perspiration, decreased auditory function, dry mouth . . . I clutched the sides of the seat.

 _And then my grave will richer, sweeter be._

A pothole made the car rock and I grabbed onto the roof's grip handle. The noises swirled around me, dull and distant.

"Y. . . All right?" Bellamy was saying from beside me, but I couldn't focus on the words. The chatter of falling water blocked out everything else. There was too much rain.

 _And you'll bend down and tell me that you love me._

The rain ran in rivers down the window panes, taunting me. The road ahead seemed to stretch farther before us, morphing into an endless channel that cut straight through the trees. I saw shards of glass glimmering like jewels against the black asphalt.

I tried to chase away the image but when I blinked, I wasn't in this car anymore. I was in a ruined one, metal cutting into my hands, a huge hole punched through the windshield.

I saw brilliant lights like eyes barreling toward us.

 _And I will rest in peace until you come to me._

"Stop!" I screamed.

The car suddenly swerved and Bellamy let out a sound of surprise, casting me a panicked look. It instantly turned infuriated. "Don't ever do that!" he shouted at me.

But I wasn't listening. "Pull over!" I fumbled for the lock on my seat belt, every instinct crying out at me to get out of this seat. It was death. Cars and rain were death.

"What're you—?"

I opened the door.

Bellamy instantly pulled off to the side of the road, near a cluster of trees. He slammed on the breaks.

I stumbled out, uncaring of the thick drops of rain falling on my head. I blinked back the redness in my vision as I rushed to the canopy of pines. I used the trunk of one for support, the bark wet and sharp under my hands. It reminded me of piercing metal and my knees turned weak. My entire body vibrated with silent tremors.

I heard the slam of a door as Bellamy got out, stomping over to the trees. He halted in front of me, and I could feel the anger rolling off him in hot, powerful waves. "What was that for?!" he demanded, voice as loud as the rain. "You could've run us off the road!"

Yes, I thought to myself. I could've. That's what I did after all. I distracted drivers. I pushed my loved ones in front of the barrel of a gun.

The world pivoted and I leaned more on the tree, feeling like a mouse in rising water. "I'm sorry," I chattered. My hands quaked as hard as the rest of me.

"You're _sorry_?" he asked, disbelieving. "I nearly wrapped us around a tree. You don't shout like that while someone is driving!"

He was angry, and for the first time since I'd met him, he had every right to be. But instinct didn't apologize and I bound my arms around myself, keeping my eyes on the sodden dirt at my feet.

Bellamy exhaled, heavy and long. From my periphery, he shook his head. "Whatever. Just get back in the car."

I stiffened, a rope going taut. "No."

That anger returned in his voice, marinating in frustration. "Why not?"

"Because I can't."

He tossed his hands into the air. "I'm not doing this! Just get in the car!"

"Then leave without me!" I shouted back. "I'll find another ride home or I'll walk there if I have to."

"Clarke"—

" _I can't get back in the car!"_ It came out shrill and echoed back into my skull. "Okay? I won't."

He simmered down some, expression going from angry to angry and confused. "Why?" he asked, the question earnest. He actually wanted to know. "It's _just_ a car."

I shook my head adamantly. My voice became something panicked. "No it's not," I said. "People die in cars, Bellamy. They die all the time. One-point-three million die in car crashes every year. That's over three thousand on average every single day. People die from rain. From music. From getting candy at a gas station. They die all the time!" I dragged in a breath, but there wasn't enough oxygen. The rain had covered the world and leeched the air from the skies.

There was just a void now. Nothing could fill it. _This_ was the darkness. That terrible nothingness that turned colors into shades of black and grey. I'd tried to push it off for so long, it'd collected into its own tsunami and now, it would wipe me off the map. How stupid I'd been to think I could somehow escape it.

A flash of genuine concern crossed Bellamy's features and he took a step closer.

Tears collected in my eyes and I wanted to shove them back, to cram them deep inside me, but it's like my body had a mind of its own. I felt like I was breaking from the inside out, the reality of everything crashing over me.

I lost my footing in the slick mud but Bellamy caught my shoulders before I could fall. He pressed them against the back of the tree, staring into my eyes.

My vision blurred again as the first tears I'd cried for Finn spilled out. The darkness surged, wrapping me in that horrible, empty embrace. "My Dad is dead because of me," I whispered to no one in particular. "Finn is dead because of me. It's all because of me."

The anger in Bellamy was gone now, replaced with something I couldn't name. "What're you talking about?" he asked quietly.

I didn't like Bellamy. He was sardonic, and cruel with words, but maybe that was exactly why I didn't care what he thought of me. What made it easy to make confessions. Strangers were good for that. People you didn't like? Even better.

A sob wedged between my ribs. "I was the one who asked my Dad to take me to the library that day. _I_ was the one who turned on the radio. Who distracted him. I was the one who told the paramedics he had internal bleeding in the chest when it was on his brain!" The words came out in small bursts. I still couldn't catch my breath. "And Finn . . . that should've been me, but it wasn't. At least I knew where the blood was coming from, but I couldn't stop it."

I leaned my head against the bark, blinking out rainwater and tears. "I-I can't keep losing people," I stuttered, the blackness squeezing my lungs in its fist.

"Clarke." Bellamy's hands tightened over my shoulder. "Hey. Look at me."

I tried. His onyx eyes burned into mine.

"Don't be an idiot," he told me. "No one died because of you. They just died. Like thousands of people do every day. Call it whatever you want, but pinning it on yourself does nobody any good. And it doesn't change anything."

I bit my lip again, so hard that pennies filled my mouth. He was right, and a part of me knew that. But I only felt that darkness, surging around me. Hunting me. I still couldn't breathe and I doubled over, clutching at the fabric over my heart.

"Okay, okay," Bellamy said calmly. "Just . . . we're just gonna sit down, all right? Easy." He helped me to the forest floor and I dug my nails into the soft dirt.

He crouched in front of me and I felt a twinge of déjà vu, like we'd been here before.

"It's not fair," I hissed at him. "None of it's fair. It should've been me. I wish it had been."

Bellamy scoffed, but it wasn't with his usual attitude. This seemed forced, like he was mocking me for my own benefit. "Then they'd just be sitting here instead of you, blaming themselves for _your_ death. That might make you feel better, but not them. It's selfish."

The rain pounded around us,so hard and alive I wondered how it could ever end. I looked from Bellamy to my drawn knees. My lip wobbled and a tide filled me up like a bottle; the spark to a fuse. I wanted to tell him that he didn't have to stick around for this, but the emotion clogging my throat choked me off. I gasped for air I didn't need and finally let the tears fall freely.

I expected Bellamy to move away. Maybe even leave.

But he didn't. To my surprise, he just pulled off his jacket and draped it over my knees.

Then he sat down beside me, and waited for both storms to pass.


	19. Coffee Standards

**I hope nothing seems fast in this chapter. I don't think it does, I actually like it quite a lot. Please review! I love every single one I get. They make my day ^.^**

I didn't know how long it took for the rain to stop. The shaking in my body turned from fear into cold, the last of the water pooling in the folds of Bellamy's jacket.

I looked across at him.

His dark hair clung to his forehead. Rainwater dripped down the tips and fell from his chin. Parts of his white t-shirt were plastered to his body and mud was caked on the soles of his shoes. He must've been freezing, but he sat stoically, balancing his forearms on his kneecaps.

He met my eyes and I waited for some kind of reprimand, because this was Bellamy. Surely he'd be angry.

But he only said, "Think we can get back in the car now?"

I nodded and hurriedly wiped my face, as pointless as it was. The rain had only washed away my tears and had left their own. I pulled his jacket off me and held it out to him but he ignored it, taking my hand and helping me up instead. His fingers were stiff. I was right; he was cold.

We trudged to the car in silence and I stood for a moment, concerned with getting the interior all wet. But Bellamy climbed inside without a second thought. Eventually I followed suit.

He turned on the engine and blasted the heat. It raised more goosebumps across my skin, chilling my already drenched clothes. I shivered uncontrollably, trying to think of something to say.

"Thanks," I said through chattering teeth.

Bellamy said nothing.

An awkward silence sat heavy between us the entire drive. I couldn't think of anything else to say to break it and soon gave up the attempt. Twenty minutes later, he was pulling up beside my house. He put the car in park.

I ground my teeth hesitantly, casting him discreet glances from between strands of waterlogged hair. The seat under him was equally soaked and I filed through a list of responses. The silence was maddening and I stated the first thing that came to mind.

"You're wet," I said stupidly.

Bellamy looked at me. "I've noticed."

I pointed with my thumb to my house, my mouth opening and closing as I searched for words. I honestly had no idea what would come out until I said, "I have towels."

"I'm fine."

"You could get sick."

"I'll manage."

I gnawed on my lip, exchanging looks between the front door and his damp figure. His jacket was still draped over my legs and the shirt material stuck to his skin, allowing me to see the grooves and valleys of his arms. Guilt mounted inside of me.

He raised his eyebrows. "Are you just going to sit here all day or do you actually plan on getting out anytime soon?"

I deliberated, picturing his face, devoid of anger. For once kind. He hadn't left me on the side of the road in my state. Was it really fair to send him home in his?

"C'mon," I said, before I could think better of it. I popped open the door and stuck a leg out. A cold puff of wind tickled me to the bone.

"What?"

I looked back over at him. "I don't want you to get sick. I told you I had towels, now _c'mon._ "

He made an exasperated sound in the back of his throat. "I'm not"—

"Don't make this harder than it has to be," I told him. "It's a towel."

Bellamy's expression turned incredulous. " _Me_? _I'm_ the one making this difficult?"

I didn't answer, and I didn't get out of the car. I waited.

He stared at me and I stared back determinedly. It was a war of will; who would break first. A minute passed.

Bellamy released a long, hapless sigh and opened his door.

I led the way to the front of the house and retrieved my keys, then gestured for him to go first.

Inside it was dark, and I flicked on the entry lights. The emptiness of the place seemed to house its own chill and I shivered.

Bellamy's eyes scanned the house, gaze going to the vaulted ceiling. He looked around as if expecting someone to emerge. "Where's your mom?"

I shrugged and motioned him to follow me up the stairs. "Work."

"What time is she off?"

"I don't know. Sometimes midnight. Sometimes the following day. It changes with her surgeries."

Bellamy didn't seem to have anything to say to that but I cast a look behind at him, in time to catch the frown on his face. He looked down and stopped. "We're tracking in mud."

I grimaced, but waved my hand. "Don't worry about it. I'll get it later. Bathroom's up here." I climbed the rest of the stairs and led him to it. I went to the closet and grabbed a pile of towels.

"I can take your shirt," I said in the bathroom, and at his look of surprise, my face instantly flushed. "To put in the dryer, I mean," I quickly amended, swallowing my embarrassment.

Bellamy shook his head, drops of water flying from his hair. He snatched one of the towels. "Bad time if your mom decided to show up," he said, as he went to pull off his shirt. He looked back at me. "Do you mind?"

I twisted away instinctively, and held out my hand behind me for the shirt, giving him privacy. The sodden cloth dropped into my hand and I left him in the bathroom to toss it in the machine.

Once finished with that, I hurried to my own room and peeled off my layer of clothes, replacing them with a warm cotton sweater. I left my wet jeans on and hurried back to the bathroom.

Bellamy was facing the mirror, masked by the towel he was using to dry his hair. He turned slightly until his back was to me, completely bare.

I stared, but not for the reason girls stared at boys.

I stared because no one could help but notice the carved portrait that was his back.

Decorated across his shoulder blades were ugly gashes. Thick, old welts rose over his skin in ribbons. There were other scars, too. Smaller. Rounder. But all were ghastly, forming an eclectic assortment of old wounds I couldn't fathom the cause of. Some resembled the imprint of a belt while others looked more like burns. Others like crescent moons, adorning his skin.

A quiet breath left me, like the sight had physically forced the air out of my chest.

But it was enough for Bellamy to hear.

He whirled to face me, the towel resting around his neck.

My lips were open, my mouth going dry for the second time today. No clear thought entered my mind. "What . . ." My voice snapped in half. "What's—?"

"It's nothing," Bellamy said. He dropped the bunched part of the towel so it fell more like a cape, covering the scars. He looked at the floor as if searching for his shirt, momentarily forgetting it was in the dryer.

My mouth didn't seem to want to close. "Bellamy, that's not nothing."

His eyes grew hard. "Just forget it, Clarke."

"Who did that to you?"

The heat returned to his gaze, snuffing out whatever kindness I'd glimpsed there. "Doesn't matter. Drop it."

"But I"—

A storm brewed in his eyes, burning from brown to black in a second. " _I. said. Drop it."_

I did. No use in pissing him off again, but that seed of horror wouldn't leave me. I grabbed the other towel and started on my own hair, avoiding any glances at his back. Questions swam through my head and that quietness butted between us again. I tried unsuccessfully to think of anything other than those puckered scars.

"Do you want anything to drink or eat? Like tea or something?" I asked when the silence was close to making me scream.

Bellamy still seemed put off by my earlier questions, purposefully keeping his back away from my line of sight. He still had no shirt on and I also avoided staring at his chest. It left very little else to look at and I settled for his face only. He cast me a look through his drying curls, hesitant, like he was thinking about declining. After a moment, he asked, "Got any coffee?"

* * *

It was surreal, being in my kitchen with Bellamy as I busied myself with the coffee pot. He was like the elephant in the room-I couldn't look anywhere without seeing him— and that silence returned. It was almost comical; not too long ago, I'd felt as if I were breaking into a million different pieces, being swept away by the rain and wind until nothing would be left. But here I was, still breathing, making coffee.

I got out two mugs and poured myself a leisurely amount. I took a greedy mouthful. It burnt my tongue but I ignored it as the warmth curled inside of me, chasing away the kind of cold no blanket could reach. It was perfect.

But apparently, Bellamy didn't think so.

When I poured him a cup and he took a sip, he abruptly pulled back, a look of revulsion twisting his face. "What is this?" he asked, flicking his tongue in disgust.

I frowned, glancing at my own mug. "It's coffee."

"That's not coffee."

"Yes it is."

Bellamy set away his cup far from himself and pushed off from the kitchen counter he'd been leaning against. "You're the school's role model and yet you don't even know how to make coffee properly." He sauntered over to the coffee machine and pulled it towards him.

I followed behind him. "I'm not a role model."

He nodded with faux enthusiasm. "Ah, right. I forgot about the bulletin board scheme of yours. What did you write again?"

I dismissed the question. "Not just because of that," I said. "I never was a role model to them. I was just doing my best for _me_. Not for anyone else and certainly not for some ridiculous title."

"And now you're failing," Bellamy deadpanned. He rifled through the cabinets until he found the coffee beans, scanning the few kinds we had. "Which one of these did you use?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. It all tastes the same to me."

"Unbelievable," he muttered, retrieving one of the bags.

"And I'm failing because"—

Bellamy held up a hand. "I know. Because you don't want to be a doctor anymore. I've heard the story. But so what? You still want to graduate, don't you?"

"To do what?"

"To avoid the McDonald's career-path, maybe?"

I grimaced at the thought and sighed. "To be honest, I never thought of it. I've only ever wanted to be a doctor. Now it just . . . doesn't feel like it matters."

"You're just screwing yourself over," Bellamy said, retrieving one of the bottled waters on the counter. "Don't use tap water for coffee, okay?" he instructed, as he uncapped the water. "Filtered or bottled. Did you ever learn ratios in school?" He poured it into the pot.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "I can't tell if you're lecturing me on coffee or grades."

"I'm telling you not to burn the grounds," he said, flipping the switch to the pot. "Five minutes. No more, no less. Otherwise it'll taste like crap."

"You're surprisingly strict when it comes to caffeinated beverages," I said, trying hard not to smile. It was ludicrous. Not half an hour ago, I was on the side of the road, crying in the rain. Now I was in my kitchen, laughing at a half-naked man I didn't like, complaining about coffee. It was absurd and yet, I felt better. The dark waters were receding. I'd been scared to let it out before, because I never knew how long that darkness would last for. Days or months-grief was always undetermined. But maybe it was less like a storm and more like the tide; it came and it went, sometimes on time, and sometimes without any warning at all.

Bellamy retrieved his glass and poured my brew down the sink. "Habit I guess. I spent some time working in a café."

The personal reference piqued my interest. "For how long?"

"A while."

"That's vague."

"I'm a vague person."

"Why?"

He huffed, setting his glass on the counter. He looked at me, face drawn in annoyance. "Because I don't like answering a bunch of questions."

"You know personal stuff about me," I pointed out, feeling somewhat embarrassed by that fact.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Probably too much. And I didn't ask to know any of it. You just told me."

"So I can't ask anything?"

"Nope."

"Not even one question?"

He scoffed, staring at me with a look of disbelief. "Why should you? I'm the one that did you a favor today, not the other way around."

I pursed my lips, again cornered by his good point. "Fine. You get an IOU for being . . . chivalrous and not leaving me on the side of the road. So," I raised my palms. "What'll it be?"

Bellamy smirked, but quickly dropped it. He cast a look at the stove's timer. "Can I have my shirt back yet?" he asked instead. "Or are you enjoying the view?"

I shot him a glare. "It should be done. Are you leaving?"

"It's getting late."

He was right; it was nearly five. Maybe it was the rainwater clogging my head, but for a moment, I actually liked having him here. It made the house feel a little less ghostly, the noise breathing some life into the still rooms. "What about your coffee?" I asked.

Bellamy glanced at the pot. "You drink it and take note of the taste. For everyone's sake."

I scoffed but held back any retort. I left him in the kitchen as I darted up the stairs and retrieved his now-dry shirt from the machine. He was waiting at the base of the stairs and I handed the clothing to him. "And the IOU?"

He made a sound that was part laugh, part disbelief. "I wouldn't count on it."

"Well, it's valid," I said, somewhat resentfully. I had nearly run him off the road. And possibly, gave him pneumonia. A little debt was called for, I just didn't get why he seemed to be the one I was always indebted to.

Bellamy smirked, taking the shirt from me. He handed me back the towel. "I'll make a deal with you, Princess," he asked as he slipped it over his head. "The day I come for that IOU is the day you get that one question."

And with that, he opened the door and stepped out into the cold.

He was already gone by the time I remembered he'd left behind his leather jacket.


	20. Under Pen and Paper

**Okay, I'm sorry if this chapter isn't the best. It's kind of a filler, but still necessary. I may edit it, but for now I'll leave it.**

I didn't return the jacket in school. It was a cesspool for gossip and I worried that someone would oversee the exchange and get the wrong impression. That, and after my breakdown on the side of the road, I wasn't exactly anxious to see the guy who had watched it all take place, from start to finish.

I nearly drove to Octavia's for her to give it to him instead, only to realize how that would've looked to her, having her brother's jacket. it was a situation that would require an explanation that I didn't have. Consequentially, all of this forced me to leave the jacket at home, in the hopes Bellamy would come claiming it himself sooner or later.

That was the most I was anticipating in the week that followed, other than my decision to attempt to smooth things over with Thalia. But it seemed my mom had other plans, because when I returned from school that Tuesday afternoon, she was already there.

"You're early," I said, as I pulled off my shoes by the front door and hooked my bag over the newel. I wandered into the kitchen with her loitering behind me, still dawned in her scrubs. They were adorned in various stains; the badges of her patients.

"Is something going on?" I asked warily when she remained quiet. I spotted a piece of paper clasped tightly in her fist. As if following my gaze, she put that hand on her hip—never a good sign.

"Your principal called," was all she had to say.

I paused, but recovered quickly, fetching a glass from the cupboard. "And?"

"And?" she asked incredulously. "Clarke, he informed me that you were failing half of your classes. And close to failing the other half. What's happened to you?"

I glanced over at her. She looked tired, the underside of her eyes purpled and dark. Frayed hair came out of her ponytail. I wondered how long it's been since she last brushed it.

"Nothing's happened," I said, though I knew what a lie that was. I held my glass under the faucet. "I just . . . I'm not dedicated like I was."

"You're not dedicated _at all_ ," she deadpanned, walking up to me. "None of what's happened has been fair to you and I get that. But this won't help. Ruining your education doesn't hurt anyone but yourself."

"I'm not doing it out of spite."

"Then why?" she asked, tossing her hands up. "Because I cannot think of a single reason how this is helpful!"

The glass was overflowing with water, but I didn't shut the faucet off. I had nothing to say. No explanation to give.

"I've reached my tolerance," she said plainly. "I've tried giving you space, but time doesn't seem to be helping matters, which is why I've decided to contact someone who can . . . help you. Who you can talk to about what you're dealing with."

I blanched, feeling my eyes go wide. I set down the glass. Drops of high water spilled over the brim, puddling on the counter. "You're . . . sending me to a shrink?" I asked, stupefied.

Mom crossed her hands over her chest. "I don't know what else I'm supposed to do. You're harming your grades, you're out drinking now"—

" _Once_ ," I repeated for the umpteenth time. "And I've already decided I'm not doing it again."

"That still doesn't explain everything else," she said, "nor does it address the most important issue and that is your education. _Both_ the school and I are worried about you."

I suppressed the inane urge to laugh out right. "The school isn't worried about me," I said with a shake of my head. "They're worried about my GPA. Can't have one of their best students spiraling downwards. How will that look to the Board?"

Mom crossed her arms over her chest, her stance rigid. "You should be worried about it, too. You've dreamed about going into medicine since you could pronounce the word. And I know this past year has been hard for you. But, Clarke, if you want to get into a good pre-med program, you"—

"I don't want to," I said, the words hushed but loud enough for her to hear them.

She paused, waiting for the catch. For the joke. When she realized it wasn't coming, she visibly faltered, her face crumbling into confusion. "You what?"

"I . . . I don't want to study medicine anymore."

Mom opened and closed her mouth, at a loss for the words. She looked around the room, as though she thought the kitchen could supply her with a substitute.

"Clarke . . . No," she shook her head and came up to me. Her hands gripped my shoulders. "This is what you've always wanted."

I stiffened, trying to dismiss the pang I felt at her disbelief. At the disappointment I'd never before been on the receiving side of. "Not anymore."

"Why? Because of Finn? Because of your father?" Her eyes glazed over. "I know it's hard, but you were _born_ for this, Clarke. It's what you love."

It was ironic, that what I loved couldn't save the people I loved. I stared back at her, swallowing the lump of emotion. "I'm sorry," I said. "But I just can't."

I stepped out of her grasp, her face still twisted in vexation. She didn't get it. And why would she? If it had been her with dad at the time, she could've saved him. She could've saved the both of them.

Slowly, mom extended me the piece of paper with the shrink's address and number. I caught the name _Marcus Kane_ was scrawled neatly above the rest of the information.

"I've already made an appointment for you Friday morning." She looked at me sternly, holding on to the paper a beat longer until I was forced to look her directly in the eyes. "Do not miss it."

* * *

It was weird, I thought, as the week drew to a close, how I'd never been to therapy. I'd heard of the dead family members' support group, but I didn't once consider it. I was never keen on the idea of sitting around a circle of strangers and retelling the story I would spend the rest of my life trying to forget, with the knowledge that I would never be able to.

And standing across from one stranger I didn't know with the same objective of getting me to talk . . . wasn't much better.

He didn't look like a shrink. That was my first impression of him, with his tall stature and comfortable clothing. No glasses. I was expecting someone old and balding, not fairly young with a headful of dark hair. Yet, after I shook his hand and he gestured for me to take a seat opposite of him in his quaint office, I caught he studiousness of his gaze. The quiet way he leveled me up.

And my impression suddenly flipped.

"Hello, Clarke," he said, crossing his legs and threading his fingers over a knee, as comfortable as if he were in his own living room. He smiled, revealing a set of sterling teeth. "It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard some impressive things from your mother."

I frowned at him. "You know my mom personally?"

He nodded. "We grew well-acquainted over a head injury I took a few years back."

I blew out a breath. "That's . . ." _fun w_ asn't the right word, and I trailed off awkwardly.

He waved a hand airily, a pen fastened beneath his thumb. "But enough about me. After all, we're here to talk about you," he leaned forward, like a man suddenly getting down to business. "Your mother told me you've been having a . . . difficult year and she's concerned. She says you're quite the scholar, but your grades have been suffering the last few weeks. What can you tell me about that?"

I tucked a stray hair behind my ear, hoping my annoyance didn't show on my face. The school had already dug up everything it could into the academic part of my head. And now here I was, having someone sift through the personal part. Was there any piece of myself that belonged solely to me?

I sighed, and met his attentive eyes. "She's right," I admitted. "My grades have been falling."

He narrowed his brows. "And why's that?"

"Well, my dad died last year," I answered brusquely, ignoring how the words stung. "And my boyfriend died this year. So grades aren't exactly the forefront of my thoughts." I gave a small shrug. "Does that seem unreasonable to you?"

Marcus shook his head, giving me that look people were always preconditioned to give me. I'd practically forgotten what it was like to be looked at as _just Clarke_. Not as the Princess, or the girl with a dead dad or murdered boyfriend. When looking at me, the person's gaze never failed to be saturated with sympathy and horror, both genuine and false alike. That's how this man was looking at me now. _Just Clarke_ didn't exist.

"No," Marcus said, a note of solemnity in his voice. "That doesn't seem unreasonable. I can only presume it's your method of coping. We all have our ways. For your mother, it may be work. For you, it may be removing yourself from the working environment. From school." He sighed, rolling his penned hand in the air. "When a person is suffering from severe trauma it's common for them to . . . "

This was how it went. For the good, solid hour my mom was paying for. Questions from him, small answers from me. Every few seconds he'd jot something down in a notebook balanced in the crook of his bent knee. He would jot _me_ down in that notebook; who I was, my problems. All summed up on a pad of lined paper.

"Are we done yet?" I finally asked, when the hand to the clock over his desk teased two.

Marcus held up a finger. "One last question," he said, tilting his face slightly to the side. "When it comes to school, why do you feel like your grades are slipping? Is it your focus that's impaired? Your motivation? Or do you simply choose not to try?"

I clasped my hands tightly in my lap, glancing between my white knuckles and him. I hated this question as much as the others, because lies in these kinds of rooms were transparent. And only the truth could appease a therapist.

"I've tried," I murmured. "I've spent years trying. And for the most part I succeeded." The area over my heart throbbed. "But I learned the hard way that an A on a paper guarantees nothing. You can answer all the right questions. You can know a dozen textbooks' worth of information. But it doesn't promise you anything; not a scholarship, not a job, and certainly not someone's life."

Marcus stared at me in silence, like he was trying to gauge something from me. Then he nodded thoughtfully, and returned his pen to the paper.

* * *

I went to bed early that night, glad for once that my mom wasn't home. I crawled into bed, my body heavy with an exhaustion that went deeper than the physical. But no sooner had I fallen asleep did I regret ever closing my eyes.

 _The sound of rain in my dream sounded perfectly clear, interrupted by the melody of Danny Boy playing in the background. Broken glass flashed before my eyes. Beams of light blinded me. I heard the skid of tires on slick pavement, followed by a deafening horn._

 _The image shifted and the sky went from blue to black. Stars sparkled against the ocean of darkness. I saw a white, plastic bag flutter to the ground. And then I heard the gunshot._

I jerked into a sitting position, eyes flying open. My heart was somewhere in my throat and my vision blurred, desperate for the images to fade. But the sound of the gunshot had sounded more real than even the horn. And so close, like the dream was butting into reality—

A banging noise came from downstairs.

A jolt went through me and I froze, but only for a moment. I quickly stood up, trying to steady my racing pulse as fumbled for my lamp. The light burned and I squinted my eyes as I left my room and came to the banister. That banging noise erupted again.

Someone was at my front door, I realized through the thick fog of sleep. I stumbled down the stairs, nearly falling when I reached the base of it. The tile was like ice under my feet and I groped the wall for the switch. The chandeliers lit up and I pressed my face to the peephole.

Unruly brown hair. Onyx eyes. Freckles.

My jaw popped open, just as Bellamy banged another fist against the door, the sound making me jump. I quickly pulled open the door.

"Bellamy?" I asked, bewildered to see him at my doorstep, and in the middle of the night, no less. I blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear the sleep from my eyes. "What's wrong?" A list of possible reasons for him being here ran through my head and I noticed his black t-shirt, his forearms bare. "Is this about your jacket?" It must've been an important item of clothing, if he decided he needed it so late at night.

But the question that came from his mouth wasn't the one I'd expected.

"Is Octavia here?" he asked, voice breathy like he'd been running, though the white Honda sat idling against the sidewalk.

I shook my head, feeling the confusion on my face. "No. . . Should she be?"

But Bellamy acted as if he hadn't heard me, and it was then that I finally caught the fear in his eyes. It wasn't something I was used to seeing in them. In fact, this was a first.

"No, just—hurry up and get in the car, all right?" he told me sharply. "I'm cashing in that IOU."


	21. IOU

**Oh gosh, this fanfiction is just so much fun to write. I have a plethora of other ideas for this. I hope nothing in this seems like, far-fetched. I mean it's a fanfiction, sure, but I'd still like the angst to be realistic. Oh, and I did have a discrepancy between Bellamy having already been to Clarke's house to pick up Octavia and then not being able to find it again, so I fixed that little detail in that chapter. I can't believe how many people are enjoying this. It makes me happy ^.^ Please review!**

I barely had time to snatch up my jacket and bag draped over the banister before Bellamy was grabbing my wrist and dragging me out of my own house. "Hold on," I said, wresting my arm out of his grip. "Just wait a second!" I searched the insides of my bag and retrieved my keys.

A harsh bark of frustration came from him. "We don't have time for this!"

I hurriedly locked my house and turned back to him, but he was already halfway down the driveway.

I darted after him, both confused and annoyed. The tiredness was still fogging my vision and I tripped on the pavement. The street was cast in an eerie shadow, illuminated by the row of lampposts.

I pulled open the door and plopped inside, having just shut the door when Bellamy hit the gas. I hadn't even put my seat belt on.

"What's wrong?" I asked, turning sideways in my seat to face him.

He gripped the steering wheel with white hands, his jaw clenched, eyes staring straight ahead. "I can't find Octavia."

"What do you mean you can't find her?"

"I don't know. She had that dance tonight, but when I went to pick her up for Maureen, she wasn't there."

"Are they out looking for her, too?"

Bellamy paused, like he was unable to articulate the words. "I was about to call them," he finally said. "But then they'd have to call the cops, which would bring in social services and then I'd be taken in for questioning when I could be out looking for her."

I pursed my suddenly dry lips. "So then why did you get me?"

"I was hoping she was at your place, because you're the only other person I can think of who knows Octavia. And right now, I could really use another pair of eyes."

No response came to mind, simply because I couldn't think of one. This was what he'd come to my house for. Not some petty pay-up, but for his sister. Not for self gain. But for _help._

The fog of sleep evaporated from my eyes. "You've checked at the dance, right?"

He nodded. "Twice. No one's seen her." He shook his head and hit a hand against the wheel. "I don't where she is. I don't know where I'm even supposed to look. She won't pick up my calls or answer my texts."

"Hey," I said firmly, until he glanced over at me. "We'll find her." I didn't mention that beyond the convenience of me knowing Octavia, I had little idea as to where a fourteen year old would go to. And that was if she'd gone off on her own volition. . .

I quickly banished that thought from my mind.

"It's barely even twelve, it's possible she just got distracted. Or her phone died. Was there an after party?" I asked, snatching out my own phone. Maybe Octavia would answer if she saw the name of someone outside her family printed as the caller ID.

"After party?" Bellamy asked incredulously, whipping his head around to me. The car swerved and my heart climbed into my mouth. "They're just kids."

I said nothing. The call went directly to voicemail. I opened my inbox and shot her a quick text, not asking where she was, just how the dance was going, being incognito.

"What kind of a question is that?" Bellamy asked, his voice bordering on a shout. I cast a look over to him, seeing as he read the message.

"A casual one," I answered. "If she replies, then at least we can believe she's okay. Then we can start looking to where she would've run off to voluntarily instead of . . . any alternative." I mentally chastised myself for even hinting at it and judging by the way Bellamy's grip impossibly tightened over the wheel until I was sure he'd break it, it was clearly the wrong thing to say.

"What, like kidnapped?"

I didn't say anything, but I didn't need to.

Bellamy's fist connected with the wheel again.

"Does she have a credit card?" I asked, trying to think of anything to distract him.

"No," he said, voice low and cracked. "Why would she?"

"Any, uh, . . ." I hesitated, but I had to ask. "Boyfriends?" I felt guilty the moment I spoke it.

Bellamy's face turned disgusted. "What? No. No way. I can't believe you of all people would even consider that."

I ground my teeth, massaging one of my temples in an attempt to think. I had a gut feeling simmering deep inside, one that was hard to ignore. One that made me dubious to see it through. What if I were wrong? But I followed it nonetheless, even if I had no idea what it would lead to. "Drive back to the school," I directed.

Bellamy let out a long breath, like he was on the verge of snapping. "I already told you; I've been there twice."

"You're going to have to trust me on this. Just drive."

* * *

The dance was indeed still going on. Though the lot wasn't very full, I could hear the distant pound of music coming from the gym. Bellamy got out of the car and slammed the door shut. He didn't even bother locking it.

"Now what?" he asked, as we strode for the gym. I promptly ignored the stares coming from the few students loitering outside, gazing at my bedtime attire. The jacket was fine, but the plaid pants and bare feet didn't suggest I'd planned on an evening out.

I bit back my hiss as the pebbles from the asphalt dug into my heels.

"Now we look," I said.

"I _did_ look."

But I just kept walking, faster to keep up with his pace. We entered the gym and I was enveloped in a room of flashing lights and loud music. Streamers were pinned across the walls along with a bunch of line lights shaped in the form of snowflakes. The color theme of royal blue and silver shown everywhere until it was all imprinted on the backs of my lids.

I moved through the throngs of kids, dresses brushing against my legs as I went. Bellamy trailed behind me, growing more agitated the farther we went.

"Where are we going?" he nearly yelled. Which, I guessed he had to, over the roar of music and feet.

I pointed to the doors that led into the school and a flash of anger burned in his eyes, sparked by panic. I headed for it before he could object. I was glad when the loud room was replaced by a quiet hall, though the floor was just as cold.

Bellamy fell into step at my side, looking down the hall. "Clarke, we are wasting"—

I held up a hand as I switched down the next hall. If loud music had the same effect on Octavia as it did on me, it would've driven her away. New school, new place. It wasn't exactly the type of environment that beckoned the new girl. It was overwhelming, and I wondered if Octavia would've thought so, too.

"Where are we going?" he asked again, the control over his voice slipping. I turned down the next hall, a line of lockers springing forth at my left hand. "Did you check all the classrooms?"

He tore a hand through his hair. "I checked the halls. I walked through the entire school."

"Even the supply closets?"

Bellamy slowed and came to a halt. His tone turned into a hiss. "Are we back to that? I already told you that Octavia isn't like those girls." A growl came from his throat. "I thought you'd be helping me! Not wasting my time! Forget it," he snapped. "I'll find her on my own."

I didn't bother explaining my theory. "Five minutes, Bellamy," I said, stopping myself and turning around to him. "We're looking for five minutes. I'm not suggesting anything with Octavia other than to look everywhere, including the supply closets."

I continued walking and after a minute or so, he reappeared at my side, his hands bound tightly into fists.

He checked in the first closet and I checked the second. Both were empty and I can tell that with each one, Bellamy was losing what little patience he had.

"She's not here," he said, twisting in a circle. "What if she was taken?" he asked me, eyes already widened to their capacity. "What if someone spiked her drink? No one would notice with all those people. She shouldn't have come."

The panic was getting to him now and I saw his hand go for his phone. "Screw this, I'll deal with the cops."

"Wait," I said. "There's still one more."

"I don't care, Clarke!" he shouted this time, voice bouncing down the hall. "Okay? At least authorities can track phones. They can put out an amber alert. Checking closets isn't exactly forensics."

But I was already walking, down a few more doors and into my old history room. I'd forgotten of a supply closet wedged in the back. It was where Mrs. Andrews always kept the archaic TV. But it held memories, too, of Finn sneaking into the room Freshman year to pour Cherry Coke into empty cartons of milk.

My chest tightened at the thought. My mind went back to the dream and I shoved it away from me as I went over to the door, located in the far, right corner. I placed my hand on the knob.

I heard the voices before I even opened it.

Miraculously, there, sitting cross-legged on the floor was Octavia, opposing a guy leaning against the archaic television. Octavia's back was to me, her light blue dress feathering around her. But when the dim light from the hallway filtered into the room, she whipped around, probably expecting some chauffeur.

Her eyes widened when she saw me. "Clarke?"

"Octavia?" Bellamy asked from behind me.

She looked between me and her brother, and then cast a quick glance at our forth party. "What are you guys doing here?" She noticed my clothes. "And why are you dressed like that?"

I ignored that particular question and returned my gaze to Bellamy. The panic in his eyes was gone, replaced by relief. But that, too, vanished the moment he registered the other guy, still standing stoically in the back of the closet. At first, it was just his usual anger. But it went from that to raw fury in a single moment and I could feel the rage coming from Bellamy. Could feel it like an open bonfire.

The guy was tall for a school-goer. Broad-shouldered with bronze skin. Dark eyes. No hair, which made him look older than he probably was. I noted he wasn't in a tux, just a black sweater and some beat-up looking jeans.

I wasn't really sure where my position at this precise moment was, but I felt like I was acting as human shield. For whom, though, I couldn't say.

When Bellamy spoke, it was like something carved from steel. "Who the he"—

"We weren't doing anything!" Octavia said, stumbling to her feet. The guy went to help her up but at Bellamy's glare, thought it best to keep his hands off. "We were just talking," Octavia explained.

Bellamy laughed humorlessly. "Just talking? _Just. Talking?_ Do you have _any_ idea what you put me through? I was about to call the police, O!"

Octavia's mouth opened, blue eyes wide with guilt. "I'm sorry. My phone must've died. I forgot when you were picking me up. I'm sorry, Bell, but I swear, nothing happened."

Bellamy looked from her to the guy and took a step in his direction. "Right."

"She's telling the truth," the guy said, but him speaking was probably the worst thing he could've done. "No," Bellamy snapped, pointing a finger at him. "You don't get to talk. Not to me, and not my sister. You're lucky you're still standing."

"Bellamy, stop," Octavia said, voice barbed. The guilty look disappeared. "I'm sorry that I worried you guys, all right? But I promise, talking was the extent of it."

"Is that why you're in the back of a closet?" Bellamy asked, the anger dripping from his tongue. "To have a heartfelt discussion between the two of you?"

"Yeah," said Octavia. "The gym was giving me a bad headache and we didn't want to be told to stick around if we were seen in the hall, so we came in here. _To talk."_

The cold from the floor was beginning to numb the soles of my feet and I pressed one against my pant leg, switching from one to the other, trying to warm them.

"How old is this guy anyway?" Bellamy sneered, jabbing a thumb in his direction as he spoke to his sister. "He doesn't look like a high school student."

"He's not 'some guy,'" Octavia said. "He has a name. It's Lincoln. And he's the quarterback so I'm pretty sure he has to go here in order to be called that."

Bellamy's fists tightened and Octavia abruptly cast me a scared look, pleading with her eyes.

This wasn't what I'd had planned for myself Friday evening, and I stepped in between the two men, my hand raised to Bellamy. "Octavia's fine," I told him, keeping my voice calm like I hoped it would rub off on him. "And I did hear voices before I found them."

"What?" Bellamy hissed at me. "You think I should just be fine with this? Let this guy go?"

Maybe my attempt was having the opposite effect, because I suddenly felt like his anger was what was rubbing off. "Yeah," I said. "Because your sister could've been kidnapped. She could've been hurt, but she's not. She was sitting in a closet talking to someone and lost track of the time. Worse things could've happened. But it's late and I'm tired because someone decided to drag me out of bed in the middle of the night." I took a breath. "But that's okay, because all that should matter to you right now is that Octavia is safe. _She is safe_. The rest you can deal with tomorrow."

Bellamy looked at me, the anger momentarily tamed. It took a minute of silent debate, as if about to argue again. But then his eyes drifted down to my cold feet. He looked back to Octavia. "Come on," he told her in a voice that held little room for argument. "We're leaving."

She tossed me a grateful smile, followed by an apologetic look at Lincoln.

I was hoping that was it. That the strife of this evening had concluded. Yet before we left the classroom, Bellamy paused and glanced back at the other guy.

"You know, there's this thing called statutory rape. I think you should look it up."

I shook my head as Bellamy joined us in the hall. "So close," I mumbled to myself.

* * *

We dropped Octavia at home first. I could tell Bellamy was eager to have her back in her own house and I was fine with that, happy the heater was directed onto my cold feet. The car ride was silent and I rested my head against the glass, my relief that Octavia was okay still fresh in my mind.

The hum from the car was relaxing, and I didn't realize I'd fallen asleep until the engine clicked off what felt like only moments later.

"Hey," Bellamy said softly. "We're at your place."

I blinked, the back of my eyes throbbing. I lifted up my head and looked out to my house, the insides of it dark save for the chandeliers I'd forgotten to turn off. Mom wasn't home.

I unfastened my seat belt. "Thanks," I murmured.

"No," Bellamy said, and I looked across at him. He looked tired now, the anger pulled from his voice like the night had taken a piece of him out. He sounded distant, and maybe even a little hollow. "I- . . . thank you, for helping me find her."

He looked slightly uncomfortable thanking me, but I could tell he meant it. A weird feeling erupted in my chest, a strange mix of surprise that he'd said it, and pride that I was the one he'd said it to. At least now I didn't feel as indebted to him. He was rude and condescending and all things in between, but he'd helped me. It was nice to at least be able to return some of the patronage.

"So," he said, thrumming his fingers over the wheel. "I guess this means you get your one question."

I'd completely forgotten about that. I never really thought he meant it literally to begin with. "I don't have to," I told him. "This was for Octavia. I would've come anyway."

He nodded, like he already knew this. "Look, I might not be likable, but I play by the rules." He dropped his hands from the wheel. "Hurry up before I change my mind."

"How about this," I said. "You come over tomorrow when I'm more lucid and, in addition to answering that, you can finally get your jacket back." I didn't know why, but I suddenly wanted that question. Bellamy was shrouded in a darkness I couldn't name, because he never let anyone close enough to see past it. I was curious, and after the collision course that was our meeting, he'd turned out to be less and less the guy I'd originally pegged him as and more of someone I couldn't understand, but found myself wanting to.

He licked his lips, looking from me to my house. He turned back to the black stretch of road in front of him. "I'm not sure that's the best idea. I don't . . . do these sorts of things. I don't give out favors, and I definitely never ask for them." He scoffed. "And I seem to be doing that a lot lately."

I grabbed my bag from the car floor. "It's a jacket and a question," I said. "But if not, I can always just send the jacket via mail to you." I didn't want to force him, after all.

Bellamy exhaled and leaned against the headrest. He looked out his own window and the seconds ticked down, one by one. A minute passed until he looked over at me. I thought he was going to reject the offer. But as I was starting to realize, Bellamy had the habit of doing the unexpected.

"Don't make me any coffee this time," he said.


	22. A Jacket and a Question

**This chapter annoyed the heck out of me. It wouldn't listen, so I'm hoping it sounds better than I feel like it is. Also, I started a series of one-shots of Bellarke titled Wishing On Stars-just for fun. And that's open for requests. Please review!**

The following morning, I slung Bellamy's jacket over the stair railing, glad it hadn't received any water damage from the rain. Mom was gone before I'd even left my bed and I ate the leftover lasagna from dinner I'd made myself the previous night, before having been dragged from my house and thrust into a two-person search party. Once finished, I cleaned my plate and stored it away. Maybe it was strange, but I missed doing the dishes. It reminded me that someone else still lived here. That I wasn't alone.

I shook that thought away before it could bring others, and went into the living room.

Bellamy had agreed to come over at eleven, but as the hand of the living room clock drew closer and closer to the number, a seed of doubt was beginning to grow inside me. It grew bolder when the hand landed on eleven and sprouted roots when the hand drifted over it.

Either Bellamy was late or he was no longer coming. I plopped down on the couch, sighing to myself. I didn't know why I felt disappointed. Bellamy and I were like water and oil. We didn't mix. But I also knew how different Bellamy was from my original perceptions of him, and how drastic a juxtaposition they were. Or maybe my motives were selfishly intended, because it gave me something to do. Something to figure out. Something to understand.

What kind of person did that make me?

I didn't have the chance to answer, interrupted by a knock at the door.

I stared at it, perplexed, before I got up. Opening it, I prepared myself for the mailman. Maybe a girl scout. But it was neither.

"Hey," Bellamy said, perhaps a little stiffly, as his eyes found mine. He looked antsy, like he was resisting the urge to walk off the porch and back to his bike.

I blinked, finding nothing intelligent to say.

He raised a brow. "Are you going to let me in?"

In answer, I stepped back, swinging the door open further. Bellamy came inside, dubious, and he looked at the house even though he'd already seen it before. We stood in the entry, neither of us speaking. His hands were shoved into his jean pockets. I averted his wandering gaze, trying to think of something to say It struck me then how much I really hadn't expected him to come, on time or late, but I didn't make any mention of it and neither did he. Luckily I was reminded by his naked arms of his jacket and quickly fled to the railing to grab it. I turned on my heels and extended it to him.

He mumbled a thanks and shrugged it on.

I brushed my tongue over my teeth, contemplating some kind of response. "Let's go for a walk," I blurted.

Bellamy's eyes puckered in distaste as he fixed the collar. "A walk?"

"Yeah. You know that thing you do when you put one foot in front of the other consecutively to get from point A to point B?"

He didn't laugh at my joke, but kept his eyes on me, like he was waiting for another option. "Or if that's too much, we can just sit outside," I proffered. "I'm getting a little tired of being in this house." I left him in the hallway to decide as I strode out the front door. It was cold, and I didn't grab my jacket but I liked the chill of coming winter on my bare arms. It grounded me to the moment and gave my mind something to focus on.

I heard Bellamy behind me and I dropped on the porch steps, extending my legs out. It felt a little weird, to be like this with him, almost natural, but it didn't compare to the awkwardness that was last time. He wasn't shirtless now and he wasn't making coffee complaints after watching me lose it on the side of the road.

Bellamy stood for a few extra moments before sitting down beside me. I noticed how he kept a foot or so between us and how tense he looked, his knees drawn onto the step under him. I noticed a scuff on one black tennis shoe. He stared out to the lawn, yellowed with the change of weather.

I felt compelled to fill the void of silence. "It's nice out," I said, as the wind teased my hair around my face.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Bellamy cast me a look. "Are you really trying to make small talk?"

"Is that not allowed?"

Bellamy faced forward again and gave a small shake of his head, brown curls rustling in the light breeze. "Let's cut to the chase. You helped me last night. I appreciate it. I made an agreement, and this is me making good on that agreement. You get one question, but my offer expires after today."

I toyed with the bottom of my lip. Bellamy Blake was as straightforward as they came, and though his bedside manner, or manners in general, could use some work, maybe straightforward wasn't such a bad thing to be.

I let out a lengthy sigh, not knowing where to look. I settled on my hands. I flipped the question over and over again, hesitant to speak aloud what had been bothering me for the last week.

"Those scars on your back?" I asked in a quiet voice. "How'd you get them?"

Bellamy hesitated, and I wondered if he would even answer at all. It didn't sound like a story anyone would want to retell and I wasn't positive I wanted to hear it. But it was the obvious query and I suspected it was what Bellamy had expected me to ask. "Not all of them are from the same person," he murmured, his head turned from me. "The belt marks . . . those are from my dad."

I bit the inside of my lip. Hard. "I thought he was in jail." That was what Octavia had said.

Bellamy smirked dryly. "What do you think put him there?"

A shiver ran up my spine.

"Drug abuse, child abuse, endangerment . . . He was a violent guy, even more when he was drunk." Bellamy's hands tightened automatically. "And after my mom, he was drunk all the time."

"But there were . . .," I couldn't swallow properly, my mouth suddenly tasting of sawdust. "I thought I saw burn marks."

"He smoked cigars," said Bellamy. "I was his ashtray."

I breathed past the horror filling my chest, wrapping around my ribs like a vice. "What about Octavia?" I asked, fear flooding me. "He didn't –?"

"No," Bellamy snapped. "He never touched her. I didn't let him. And eventually, when I got old enough, I made sure he would never be around to try."

I didn't know what to feel. Appalled? Yes. But it was eclipsed by my own anger, how a father could be so cruel. It went beyond the borders of my understanding. Growing up, my Dad was one of the most important people in the world to me. He had been the hero in my life when in Bellamy's, his own father was still the villain.

"And the other scars?" the words were quiet now, like I couldn't muster up the volume.

Bellamy's teeth clenched and the muscles in his jaw grew prominent. "I lived in a lot of homes. Some of the families were nice." He looked across at me. "Some of them weren't."

We didn't speak for a long time and I stared into his eyes, at last understanding some of the hardness in them. I knew the pain of losing those I loved dearly. Bellamy knew the pain of pain, inflicted by those that were meant to keep you safe from it all.

Which was worse, I wondered?

I couldn't feel the cold in the air anymore. It felt like it was on the inside; no amounts of coat or blanket could alleviate it.

"Is that a satisfying answer?" Bellamy finally asked, his shoulders and hands still wrought with tension.

I still couldn't swallow. Couldn't even breathe. And I knew, without him even saying, that this wasn't yet the full story. He'd only given me a piece; a single sliver to the broken image that was his childhood.

"I don't know what you mean by satisfying," I said.

"Do you wish you hadn't asked?"

Maybe I did, to some degree. But I still gave a small shake of my head, because at least now, I understood him more clearly than I ever had before.

Bellamy narrowed his eyes in a small warning. "Don't pity me, Clarke. Or Octavia."

"I'm not pitying you," I said automatically, and that was the truth. I was so accustomed to that look of pity myself. I knew what good it did and I wouldn't give that to him, because he'd proven stronger than his circumstances.

"Everyone does sooner or later," he breathed.

"You can't fit the world into a box, Bellamy," I said. "Why should I pity you? Bad things happened. Horrible things, but you did something about it. The only thing that calls for is my respect." I shrugged noncommittally.

A flicker of confusion shown in his eyes, like he was looking at an equation he couldn't quite figure out. Then I blinked, and it was gone. "That's a first," he said.

"It shouldn't be." I was surprised by the edge in my voice.

He raised a brow. "Why do you care so much?"

I crossed my arms over my chest. The leaves on the nearby trees chattered from the gust of wind. "I . . . I just think it's unfair."

Bellamy sighed. "Everything's unfair. We live in a place where dads beat their kids and boyfriends get gunned down in parking lots."

I flinched internally at that. I ground my teeth as the images flashed through my head, just as they did with each reminder.

"Happens every day," he added.

"Not all of it is unfair," I said, looking out across the lawn again.

In my periphery, Bellamy cast a glance at me. His voice turned steely. "How do you, of all people, figure that?"

I thought back to this whole year. The unbearable pain of having someone so close ripped from you. Again and again. The darkness. "It was unfair for my dad and Finn to die," I spoke slowly, each word serrated. I looked at Bellamy. "But it wasn't unfair to love them. And it wasn't unfair to have them love me back."

"And me?" he asked, a note of sarcasm in his voice. "Where's the fairness in a father using his son's toy bin to hide his liquor? Where's the fairness in a kid raising another kid when he should've been attending school?"

I deliberated, picking my words carefully. "Maybe that fairness is not in your life, but you're the one that put it in Octavia's."

Bellamy scoffed, but it was weak. His clasped hands tightened and he said nothing.

I didn't want him to leave yet. I wasn't quite ready to return to the empty house. "You know, I didn't think you'd even come, much less be honest with me," I admitted.

Bellamy cast me a smirk, tinted with discordance. "Who's to say I'm speaking the truth?" he asked. "This could've just been some elaborate lie I concocted on the drive here."

I scrutinized him. "It's not."

"And how would you know?"

It was my turn to smirk. "I hate to break this to you, Bellamy, but you don't hide things as well as you think you do."

"Don't start thinking you know everything about me, Clarke," he said, but I could see a bit of the tension in his shoulders dissolve. His clasped hands grew more relaxed.

"I don't think I know everything," I said, turning back to watch as the wind ruffled the dying grass. I stared up at the sky, adorned in wisps of cloud. "But I think I know enough."


	23. Phone Calls

**This is not edited. Because it is late. And I don't want to make you guys wait another day. But ignore any mistakes. They will be fixed. And I hope none of this seems rushed; I don't think so. That's always my concern. Please review!**

"It must be difficult, not having your mother around very often. Do you think her presence would help you?"

I sat across from Marcus, my hands tucked neatly in my lap. He was just as he was last week, as if he hadn't moved at all. It was Sunday evening now, and though I'd assumed therapists went along with the general rule and took the weekend off, that seemed not to be the case when I was concerned. He said he was repaying a favor to my mom, for keeping his cranium intact after his accident.

I would've laughed if the image didn't fill my mind with the pictures of blood and broken bone.

I looked from him to the coffee table. It was perfectly clean, no hints of brown stains or dried circles. Either no one used it, or Marcus was paid enough to keep even his office furniture in mint condition. Looking at the way he dressed, you wouldn't think he made much. But then your eyes would catch on the nice watch glinting on his wrist and end on his polished shoes, and you'd know he made plenty.

I shrugged. "Before, maybe. Not much now."

"Why not?"

"Because like you said, she wasn't around much. She compromised knowing me for being the best at her job."

A line appeared between Marcus's brows and he readjusted his posture. "And you resent her for that?"

I shook my head, somewhat annoyed. I was reminded of that one film with Lindsay Lohan and her mother who worked as a therapist. _And how do you feel about that?_

"I don't resent her at all," I said. "She loves her job. She saves lives. It's just fact that she doesn't know me as well as she thinks she does."

"She spoke of a drinking incident. That you came home drunk one day."

My hands curled into fists in my lap. "That happened once," I said for what I hoped was the last time. "And I wasn't drunk when I came home. I was at the party, but I . . . stayed at a friend's house," I said quickly. "And was driven home the next morning."

"I see," he said calmly, nodding for emphasis. Not a strand of hair came out of its place.

"About friends. Do you talk about any of your struggles with them?"

Automatically, my thoughts went to Bellamy, sitting on my porch, talking about beating fathers and cigar burns, the size of nickels. "Yeah."

"And do they seem to share your mother's concerns?"

Thalia flashed through my mind. She and I had been friends for years, yet did she honestly know what I was dealing with? How could she? Her family was still intact. Whenever I ate over at her place, I couldn't remember a time her father came home and didn't peck his wife on the cheek. I couldn't remember when her mother didn't smile back and lean into him. No, Thalia couldn't understand.

My thoughts returned back to Bellamy, and I was suddenly struck with the knowledge that the guy I'd met only a couple months ago knew me better than my lifelong friend did. Than even my own mother did.

"Not really," I said. "They think I'm ruining my chances."

Marcus raised the tip of his pen to his face, creating a small dimple in his cheek. "Do you?"

"Yeah," I replied honestly. "But I already knew that. I wasn't struggling to come to terms with it."

"Then what is it you _are_ struggling with?" asked Marcus. He leaned forward. "What seems so hard for you to do?"

I thought of the torn textbooks. The ripped pages scattered across my bedroom floor. I remembered the hundreds and hundreds of hours I'd drowned myself in their words, tracing my fingers over every diagram. Drawing them until I remembered all the details. It wasn't only my heart I'd put into it. I'd put in my very soul, and heartbreak was nothing compared to a broken soul.

I returned my gaze to the coffee table. "To care."

* * *

The following day, I sought out Thalia. My previous session with Marcus prompted me to talk to her. Though I still wanted some space, I missed having her around. How we'd left things was a constant nag in the back of my head and it was something I knew a simple text couldn't fix. I had to be sure.

When the lunch bell tolled, I entered the cafeteria and found her at our usual, three-seated table. One for her, one for me, one for a ghost.

She looked up at me and her eyes widened ever so slightly. A straw was in her mouth, but she stopped drinking at my approach.

I hefted my bag higher on my shoulder, feeling awkward. We'd had plenty of fights before, but none so dark as last time. "Hey," I said meekly.

Thalia swallowed and set down the drink. "Hey."

"How've you been?"

"That was going to be my question."

I smirked. "I've been okay, I guess," I replied lamely. "You?"

She fiddled with the sleeve of her blue shirt. "Grand."

I sighed, giving up the charade of chitchat. "Are we okay?" I blurted.

Thalia gave me an incredulous look. "Clarke, we were never un-okay. Finn . . . died," the second word came out lower than the rest. "You're allowed to get pissed off. I shouldn't have said what I did anyway. I was in the wrong."

I unleashed the air I hadn't known I'd been holding. "I'm really glad. I"-

"But I _am_ worried about you," she interjected. She splayed her hands on the table's surface melodramatically. "Clarke, what are you thinking? I saw the bulletin board. I've never seen you get anything less than an A in your whole life. The worst grade you ever received was a B in middle school. And I watched you cry over it for a week."

I'd known this was coming. It was actually nice. If the chair weren't empty at my side, it would've felt normal, just another Monday.

I searched for the right words. "It's just . . . not the same anymore." I shrugged. "It doesn't matter to me as much. Can we talk about something else?"This wasn't something I was really in the mood to discuss.

"All right," she nodded exuberantly. "How about you at that party? _Drunk_?"

Would I ever live that down?

"At first I didn't believe it," she went on. "I thought it was just a rumor, but it isn't. Is it?"

"That was a slip up," I told her, tone blase. "Won't happen again."

But she continued as if she hadn't heard me. "And then you go off somewhere with _Bellamy Blake?"_ She shook her head at me.

"It wasn't like that," I said abruptly, not liking the implication in her voice.

"Where did you even go?"

Suddenly, I felt like I was being interrogated. I couldn't lie well to Thalia, and in this case, the truth benefited me. Or at least, I thought it did. "To his place because I was too intoxicated to find my way home. And something about forgetting a route." The memories were still hazy.

Thalia's mouth popped open and I knew it was bad when I'd rendered her speechless. I regretted the truth instantly.

She blinked. "Clarke, that's dangerous. He could've done something to you. Who's saying he didn't? Bellamy isn't . . ." she looked around, making sure he wasn't within earshot before saying, "he's not like other guys."

It was my turn to lose my voice. My walls shot up. "He didn't do anything to me, Thalia."

"How do you know?"

"Because he's not a bad guy, all right?" I snapped, surprising the both of us. But I didn't apologize for it. After everything I'd learned about Bellamy first-hand, I knew he deserved better than this.

Thalia's mouth still hung open. "So, what, are you like hanging out with him now?"

I took a slow breath in an effort to reel in my spooling anger. "We've helped each other out a couple of times."

Thalia gawked at me. She shook her head again. Her disbelief slowly ebbed, replaced by a look I was all too familiar with- pity, like I'd somehow let her down. But this time it wasn't because of my dad, or Finn. It wasn't even for my grades. It was because of my affiliation with a man who gave me his leather jacket and sat with me in the rain.

"I . . ." She leaned back in her chair. "I don't get you, Clarke. What could you ever help Bellamy Blake with?"

I clenched my jaw, regretting my earlier decision of sitting down. "I'm friends with his sister," I answered simply.

"The freshman?"

"Yes."

Thalia tossed up her hands, and the chair legs scraped against the floor at the movement. "That's kind of creepy, Clarke."

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from saying everything I wanted. "You don't get to do that," I told her instead. "You can't just make snap judgement calls when you don't even know who you're talking about. They're nice people."

Genuine hurt flashed across her eyes. They narrowed. "I know I don't recognize who you are right now," she hissed, all traces of her jovial attitude gone. She took her drink back in her hands and stood. "While I was worried about you, it turns out you were off befriending kids. I thought I was your _best_ friend and now you're defending your new ones to me? _"_ She strung her bag over her neck and raised her hands at me. _"_ You know, I take it back. None of this is okay. _We're_ not okay."

She stood and pushed back the chair. Then she stalked out of the cafeteria.

I didn't go after her.

* * *

I was tired when I got home. Drained emotionally, I filled the coffee pot with bottled water and grabbed a Tupperware of day-old casserole from the fridge. Everything in it was something-days-old. I took out a fork, but a sound of movement coming from upstairs kept me from starting on my early dinner.

I set it on the counter and headed up the stairs. "Mom?" I asked softly. I went for her room. The door was cracked and I raised my hand to push it open.

 _"_ _I miss you, too,"_ came her voice from inside, but she wasn't talking to me. She must have been on the phone, and though that was common, the happiness in her voice wasn't.

I inclined my ear to the door.

 _"_ _Thank you for not pushing this. We both know Clarke's not ready."_

My insides grew cold. I stopped breathing.

A pause.

 _"_ _You don't know how much I appreciate it. I'll see you soon."_

I heard her hang up.

Composing myself, I quickly retracted from the door and went to the banister, acting as if I were just coming up the stairs when she emerged from her room. She looked from the small screen in her hands to me.

I begged my expression to look nonchalant, and not match the turmoil rolling inside. "Were you on the phone with someone?" I asked. My voice gave nothing away. Never once, did she not trust me with something and I clung to that hope now. I waited for the truth.

My mom shrugged and dropped her phone in her scrubs' front pocket. "Just a patient of mine."

It took every ounce of willpower to keep my emotions from bleeding into my face. I nodded, and stepped to the side to let her down the stairs. She passed me calmly, going on her way like usual. Like a thousand times before.

I didn't know which was more disturbing: that my mother had just lied to me, or how good she was at it when she did.


	24. Detention

I lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Though it was early December, I had the fan on, and watched the blades cut through the air, its rhythm matching the pace of my thoughts.

My mother was seeing someone.

I didn't want it to be true. Didn't want to have to picture her in the arms of a man who was not my father lodged in my head, but I couldn't shake it loose. Somehow, the idea of her being involved with someone else had never occurred to me. As far as I was concerned, Dad had been her soulmate. They had been like Thalia's parents in that respect; Dad never forgot their anniversary or her birthday. And then there were random days when he'd come home with a bouquet of flowers, just because. A nothing present. And she'd kiss him for it, long and languid until I'd make a choking noise and they either broke apart laughing or ignored me altogether.

I squeezed the pillow I was clutching tighter to my chest.

I wished I could take those choking noises back now, and give them their few extra moments. Their time had been limited. Their kisses numbered.

I couldn't bear thinking of someone else standing in my dad's place. It was wrong, like a red sky or a barking cat. I couldn't get my mind around it. I was grasping at water and trying to hold on.

Thoughts I didn't want to think flipped through my mind like a Juke box. I wondered how long she'd been seeing him, I wondered if he bought her flowers for nothing occasions. And selfishly, I wondered how many times she was with him and not at work, as I sat at an otherwise empty table, eating day-old leftovers by myself.

Every question hurt. I wanted to cry, but I didn't. Instead, I buried my face into my pillow and screamed.

* * *

I had questions, but I didn't want the answers to them. If I ignored it, I could almost pretend that I hadn't heard the phone call. Maybe I was wrong; it was only a misunderstanding. Logically, it was possible. But I'd heard it in her voice. Lighter, happier. I knew, because it was how she used to speak to dad.

I tried to banish the queries from my mind, but when mom got up early the following morning, dark thoughts crept into my mind. Would she be going straight to work? Or would she be making a stop along the way? What about after her shift? During her break?

I resisted the urge to scream again.

I'd woken up unbearably early, but was running late to school, feeling foggy-headed and glassy-eyed. The day had only just begun and already I wanted it over.

I wanted to skip class, but I didn't want to stay in this house, left in the endless cycle of painful wonderings, so I grabbed my bag. But when I passed my Mom's bedroom door, I stopped. I stared at it. The need to know ran through me like that liquor, dulling my senses and making stupid actions seem very plausible.

I shook my head to myself. I used to think I would never be a snoop and nearly left for school right then.

But I also used to think my mom wasn't a liar.

I went into her room.

Other than a few clothes that littered the floor, it was clean. Traces of antiseptic and hospital clung to the air. Her bed was made, sheets wrinkled in haste.

It was stupid, but I half-expected to see a pair of men's shoes lying around. My dad had been an environmental scientist and always wore sneakers. What kind of shoes did the man my mom was seeing wear?

I didn't know what I was looking for but I headed for her drawers. Guilt pummeled me as I opened them one by one, but the ache in my heart overpowered it as I rummaged through meaningless things; socks and jewelry I'd never seen her wear, old cards still tucked inside their ripped envelopes. Nothing. I suddenly felt ashamed, but not enough to regret looking. Not enough to stifle my rising anger.

When I reached school, I had no choice but to miss first period. I knew what that would mean and I walked to Principal Jaha's office, disheartened. My feet felt weighted an my throat was raw from my earlier pillow-shouting.

Principal Jaha was sitting at his desk with his legs propped up on its file-ridden surface. He held a Rubik's cube in his hand. Sides red and blue were complete.

He looked up from behind his frameless glasses. When he saw that it was me, he sat forward. "Clarke," he said. "I was just about to phone your mother."

I bristled when he brought her up. "I'm sorry I missed first period."

"Do you have a reason? Or are you skipping classes now, too?"

I winced internally. "Sorry, I had a rough night," I repeated. "I'll take detention." I felt like a kid asking for her punishment, but if it meant not going home I didn't mind a prolonged stay.

Jaha dropped his legs and set the cube on the desk. "Clarke, I never thought I'd have to say this, but I'm becoming concerned with your weekly progress reports."

I gnawed on my bottom lip.

"We have a school counselor, if you're interested in"—

"No," I interrupted, and quickly pedaled back. "I mean, I appreciate the offer. But I'm already seeing someone about it." One shrink was enough.

Jaha's expression relaxed. "Oh." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "Good. I'm relieved you have someone to talk to about your current situation."

 _Situation. Struggles_. Why did no one just say it as it was? Like any of the above words somehow softened the mention. I particularly despised his word _current_ , as if there were more _situations_ to come.

He sighed. "Considering your perfect record, I've been lax under the circumstances-"

 _Circumstances._

-"But I cannot continue this throughout the remainder of the school year. Your grades need to improve, or, I'm afraid, it will inhibit your chances of getting accepted into one of the ideal pre-med programs."

Didn't anyone understand? I had no use for an acceptance. Not anymore. But I just gave a meager nod.

"And as much as I hate saying it, I will be forced to give you an hour's worth of detention for arriving late."

I nodded again. "Okay." It was what I'd expected.

"You may go now."

I turned to the door.

"Oh, Clarke?"

I looked back to him.

He picked up the Rubik's cube and tossed it to me. My hands caught it before it could hit the floor.

"Something to occupy your time with."

* * *

I rested my back against my locker, waiting out the last few minutes for the bell to toll. My bag dangled from my elbow and a pain throbbed over my left temple. I still held the cube and I worked it out of boredom, trying keep my mind from wandering back to those questions. I knew how it worked, but that didn't mean I knew how to complete one. I managed two rows of the white before I lost my patience for it, and wound up tossing it in my bag just as the bell went off.

Students flooded the halls and I joined in. I hoped I wouldn't run into Thalia. It was hard to imagine our argument had only happened yesterday, and though it wasn't pressing, it still grated on me if I thought about it. And my energy was already on its last reserves; I couldn't survive a repeat.

Someone grabbed my hand and I gasped as a jolt ran through me. Bellamy stood at my side, fingers gripping my wrist. His brown eyes appeared darker than usual, narrowed with either anger or anxiety, I couldn't tell.

I glanced between his hold and him. "You know, there are other ways of getting people's attention. I suggest a simple, 'hey'."

"If you see Octavia," he said, cutting straight through my words. "tell her to come find me."

My energy levels spiked with alarm. "Did something happen?"

"Yes-no" he shook his head, russet curls falling low over his brows. "No, I just . . . just tell her, okay?"

I nodded, uneasy. "Sure."

He squeezed my wrist for a moment longer, like he didn't quite want to let go yet. Then he dropped his hold and quickly stalked away.

He hadn't even hesitated to say thank you this time.

* * *

I'd hoped the day would start to speed up the longer it went on, but it didn't. On the contrary, it seemed to slow, until I couldn't recall at what point yesterday had become Tuesday. During lunch, I didn't eat, but spent my time keeping my eyes out for Octavia and being beaten by a multicolored square. I managed another row of white but at the expense of a section of the finished blue.

Oh well.

When detention finally rolled around, I trudged down the halls, my bag swinging weakly from my shoulder. After this, I decided, I would go home and crawl straight into bed. I'd binge-watch _Friends._ I would _not_ go back into mom's room to dig up answers that weren't there, to questions I wished I would stop asking.

I rounded the corner and was only a few doors away when I caught a flash of brown hair. I looked over to find Octavia close by, and she wasn't alone.

An older man stood across from her, in a withered black coat and frayed jeans. He scratched at the side of his head nervously, cutting glances from side to side like he was uncomfortable. He was nearly a head taller than her, but there was something slight about him, in the way his shoulders drooped and his chin dipped towards his throat.

I'd never seen him before, but he looked familiar. And the longer he stood next to Octavia, I understood why. She shared the curve of his nose and his bright, blue eyes, but they looked darker in contrast to his cropped brown hair. I saw Bellamy's facial structure and his same, pigmented cheekbones.

I knew who it was, but the image I'd created of this man was much darker. I could picture him standing before a young boy, a belt in one hand, a cigar in the other.

Cold fear drew its hand up my spine.

This was the villain in Bellamy's story. And he had come back.


	25. Returned

**This chapter was originally over 5K words, so I decided to split it into two. Sorry it took so long-these two chapters HATED me. Like, we were not getting along. There was rivalry. And that last episode did not help :'(** **(Oh, also, this is not edited so ignore any errors.)** **Please review!**

I stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, rooted to the spot. I thought back to the anxiety I'd seen in Bellamy's eyes. Had he known?

Anger surged inside me. Hot and boiling. It made my mouth go dry and turned my blood to ash. A metallic tang filled my mouth and I was suddenly walking over, hands clenched, teeth ground so hard my jaw hurt.

At my approach, Octavia's eyes met mine, a confused expression already on her face. Did she know who she was talking to?

"Hey, Clarke," she said, a little dubious. She glanced between the door over my shoulder and me. "Were you . . . going to detention?" the bewilderment in her voice was twofold.

Yes, she knew.

"Nope," I answered automatically. _Not anymore. Not with him right here._ I didn't care how much time had passed.

I looked at the man opposite of her. His eyes were the same color as Octavia's and at first glance, they looked inviting. But there was a glacial edge to them, cold and sharp. He smelled of prison and, unsurprisingly, tobacco.

"Hi," he said, and gave another scratch of his temple. He gestured to Octavia before holding his hand out to me. "I'm Jeremy, but people call me Jae."

I looked at his outstretched hand, tanned and wrinkled like old paper. No scars.

 _I don't think I can touch him,_ I thought. How do you shake the same hands that had once been used to beat a little boy?

I caught Octavia's look of apprehension. There was a flash of fear there, like she'd read my mind.

I didn't want to alarm her, so I placed my palm in his, only for a moment, and pulled it back before his fingers could curl around my hand. I stifled a shudder that ran up my back.

"I'm just here for a short visit." He smiled at me, but it seemed strained, as if his lips didn't quite know what they were doing.

I felt like something made of stone, everything in me as taut as pulled wire. My walls were raised so high they could compete with China's.

I looked into his glacial eyes. At the barb I saw, drifting just beneath the surface. A large freckle decorated the bridge of his nose.

He may have been a nervous man, here, in front of his daughter, but I knew what he was capable of. I'd seen it for myself.

"I need to speak with Octavia," I said, bypassing the expected _it's nice to meet you._ Because it wasn't. And I wanted Octavia away from him. Forget whether or not it was my place to enforce it.

I motioned for her to come with me, but a look of hesitation crossed over her face. Her brows furrowed and she looked between me and her father, torn. And it suddenly hit me: She knew who he was, but that didn't mean she knew of all the things he'd done. For all Octavia had understood as a kid, her father had been sick. And now he wasn't. Maybe to her, he was nothing more than a distant recollection; just a man who had made some bad decisions in his life.

But to me, he was a monster.

I tried to convey my message through my eyes alone. I hoped Octavia saw the plea. The desperation. The warning I felt, running over me like ice water. "It's about your brother," I added, like that would help, and I cut a quick glance to Jae, gauging for any change in expression. It was small. Marginal, even, but I thought those glacial eyes turned wary. They narrowed, ever so slightly.

"Come on," I said to Octavia as gently and lax as I could muster. My skin crawled as my insides burned. "It'll just take a sec"—

I was cut off by the sound of footsteps and I barely had enough time to look over my shoulder before Bellamy rounded the corner.

He still wore that hard, anxious expression, but when his eyes first landed on Octavia and then me, and finally on Jae, it slid from his features. He came to a complete stop, so suddenly that his bag lost its purchase on his shoulder and slipped down his arm. It fell to the ground with a muffled _thump._ His face read only shock for a moment. And then, it rearranged into one of pure, ardent, fury.

He was over to our small group in just a few strides.

His hands were balled at his sides and they shook with silent tremors. His otherwise tanned face had gone pale, but it was clear to me Jae should've been the most intimidated. Because looking up at Bellamy, he must've realized his mistake; that the little boy he'd used to beat had grown up, into a bigger man than him.

Bellamy inserted himself between Octavia and their father—between _me_ and their father, until I could only see his leathered back and a bit of his profile.

No one said anything but I could feel the heat rolling off of Bellamy. All the times I'd seen him mad before were virtually nothing compared to this. That had just been anger. Perhaps fury. But this…this was rage. And I wondered how Bellamy was maintaining such control over it.

"Maureen will be here to pick you up. Go wait for her," he said, in a voice composed of steel. It took me a moment to realize he was speaking to his sister.

She cast a glance first at him and then at me, as if I had any jurisdiction here.

"But"—

 _"I said go."_ he told her, and this time, Octavia heeded the warning in his voice and scurried down the hall.

Only when she was gone did Bellamy force his attention on the other man. But Octavia's absence only seemed to fuel the fury and I saw Bellamy's control slipping.

" _What_ are you doing here?" he asked, his words slow like they were taking an effort in themselves alone.

Jae shrugged. Looked away from Bellamy. Met his eyes again. He displayed all signs of discomfort and shoved his hands in his pockets. I'd seen Bellamy do that over and over and I hated I found a similarity between the two of them.

"A father's got a right to see his children," said Jae tilting his head up in an attempt to make himself just a little taller.

A strained breath came from Bellamy and I saw his shoulders tense even more. "You think you have a right to that title after everything you've done?" he growled, hands shaking and shaking and shaking. "You aren't a father," Bellamy said. He took a small step forward. "You're a coward, who decided the only way to see his little girl was to sneak up on her in school. In public. And now that you have, it's time for you to go."

From around Bellamy, I watched Jae stare back at his son, and though shorter and weathered, it was clear this man was bullheaded. Like a rock lodged in ice. Try to remove it, and the whole surface breaks.

"I'll go," he said. "But I'm not leaving for good. This isn't the last time you'll be seeing me, Bellamy. You'd do best to get used to the idea of having me around again."

I felt the heat build in Bellamy. The fury and hatred, pent up like Pandora's Box.

On instinct, I stepped out from behind Bellamy and planted myself in between them, just enough that if he planned to try anything, he'd have to push me out of the way to deliver it. I couldn't stand the thought of him getting in trouble at school, not after all the work he'd done to get where he was. I couldn't stand the thought of Bellamy losing anything more to this pitiful person who'd already taken more than anyone had the right to.

Jae cast me a look that almost looked grateful—as if I were acting on _his_ behalf— and I squirmed in my skin, feeling disgusted. I turned briefly to Bellamy and caught the fire in his eyes. It didn't only burn like usual. It raged. And I knew, with every fiber, every nerve and cell in my body, that he wanted to break the man that stood before him. I could've sworn that for a minute, his gaze glowed red.

"Not here." I whispered, and gave a very small shake of my head. Bellamy didn't answer. He didn't even look at me. But I knew he understood.

"Get off school property," he hissed. The quivering of his hands seemed to rattle so deep, it shook in his voice. "Before I throw you off it myself."

Jae lingered for another moment, eyes of ice staring into ones of fire. He looked like he wanted to say more, but finally did something smart, and kept his mouth closed. He nodded once and took a step back. Then another and another. He turned his back on us and strode away.

The minutes ticked by and even when Jae disappeared down the hall and out the door, Bellamy didn't relax. He stayed as immobile as a statue.

I didn't say anything. I just waited.

Then his stone facade cracked and he was walking away, going in the same direction of Jae and shoving the doors open. They hit the outside walls. I followed after him, uncertain. Worry gnawed in the pit of my stomach.

"What are you going to do?" I asked, having to speed-walk to keep up with him.

Bellamy didn't look at me. "Nothing." He strode to the white Honda in the lot. He unlocked it and dropped inside. The rattled from the force he used to shut it.

Wind nipped at my hair as I looked between the passenger door and Bellamy. I didn't want him to do anything rash. He was angrier than I'd ever seen him; a ten-point earthquake that had the potential to demolish everything around him. And I didn't want him to do something he'd regret.

I didn't even think. I just got in the car.

In my periphery, I saw Bellamy turn his heated gaze on me. I was surprised I didn't catch fire. "Get out, Clarke."

I kept my eyes fixed ahead. "No."

"Get out of the car!"

I shook my head slowly. "No."

"What is wrong with you?" he practically bellowed, voice reverberating through the small space. Maybe it was in my imagination, but I thought I felt the seats quake.

"Do you think you have a right to just do whatever you want? Are you that desperate for a friend? I'm not your friend! And I'm not your boyfriend, because in case you've forgotten, he's dead!"

My eyes snapped to him and a gaping hole appeared in my chest. The scar ached. The metal bird resting under my jacket seemed to go a few degrees colder.

Bellamy stilled, as if finally registering his own words. "Clarke, I"—

I held up a hand, silencing him.

I almost got out of the car. I was very close, my pinkie wrapped around handle. I pulled both of my hands into my lap. "Take the dirt path a mile up the road," I said in a quiet voice, swallowing everything I wanted to say.

He faltered, confusion flashing in his eyes. "What?"

I looked away from him and out the window. "Just drive. I have an idea."

It seemed I was going full-masochist today.

* * *

"A pond?" Bellamy deadpanned, roughly ten minutes later, five of which we'd spent walking through thin trees and over potholed dirt. It was only half past three but the coming of winter was already painting in the sky in shadow.

Before us stood a small pool of water, connected by a rickety old dock. The dock was sun-bleached and windswept, and tilted more to one side. A river met it from the far side. My dad had come up here to fish on more than one occasion.

I caught the edge of annoyance in Bellamy's voice, like he'd expected more. "Why are we at a pond?"

I pulled off my shoes and coat. I dropped them on the dock, uncaring where the landed. "For this," I said, and jetted past him. I barely registered his call of surprise before I launched myself from the creaking boards and into the water.

It was like bathing in needles. The freezing temperature stabbed at my feet, my chest, my head. It made me dizzy and punched the air from my lungs. But it did its job.

My thoughts vaporized, turning to dust that settled on the pond's floor like silt. I couldn't conjure images in my mind. There was just the cold, like when I was in the shower after Finn. Like when I sat on the porch steps without a jacket.

The cold's bite grew viscous, wrapping around my feet like lead and I clamored up until I broke the surface.

"Clarke!" Bellamy shouted from somewhere behind me. I was turned around, but heard his footsteps on the dock. I shifted until I faced the right direction. Droplets of water crowded my eyelashes, blurring my vision.

"Are you insane?" he bellowed. His eyes were wide and on me. Some of his earlier fury had ebbed and an anxious Bellamy stood in his place now. "Get out!"

My legs ached as the treaded the sharp waters. My hands looked as white as eggshells. "Get i-in," I stuttered, voice hoarse from the cold.

Bellamy just looked at me. "What?"

"Get _in._ "

Bellamy shook his head, looking away from me and towards the brush that surrounded the pond. His anger returned. "I'm not in the mood for this, Clarke."

I splashed water over his shoes.

He glared down at me and took a step back. "Knock it off!"

"I'm not getting out until you come in," I said, already feeling my legs start to weaken. The water hiked up to my jaw. "You have to trust me."

Bellamy shook his head in disbelief. I wondered if he'd turn and leave right then. He seemed to debate whether or not to. But then his eyes drifted back to me.

I ducked under the water again.

The cold ran its fingers over my skull. My feet nearly skimmed the bottom of the pond. What little breath I'd regained disappeared once more.

When I resurfaced. Bellamy was gone.

A sinking feeling began in the pit of my stomach. But then something exploded from the water, and I looked to my side. Bellamy's angry eyes met mine, hair plastered to his forehead and so dark, it almost looked black.

He spit out water and cursed. His breathing turned labored as he grew accustomed to the chill. He glared at me. "Is it some life mission of yours to push me over the edge?" he asked.

My hands moved in a circular motion, but the movement didn't help keep away the cold. "You needed to cool off," I told him.

Bellamy tossed up his hands and nearly went under again. Drops of water sprayed down around us. "Well thanks to you, I think I've managed that just fine."

I kept my voice neutral. "But you're not as mad as you were. You don't feel like you want to kill someone."

"Are you trying to give me ideas?" He shook his head to clear the curls from his eyes.

"Don't tell me you were close," I said, my voice breathy from the exertion. The cold wrapped around my chest like a vice. "You wanted to kill him right then and there. I _saw_ it."

"Of course I did!" he snapped. The corners of his lips were beginning to turn pale. "You want me to say I didn't? That the thought of hitting him until my knuckles bled didn't enter my mind? No, you just want me to be the bigger person. Well I'm not. I want him gone. That man is _everything I hate._ "

My foot grazed a rock and I winced, but the chill quickly lulled the tender area into numbness. "You think I blame you for that? I just"—

"And I didn't need you stepping in like some personal mediator of mine," he added voice as searing as the cold.

I paused, just enough for water to spill into my mouth. I spit it out. "I didn't want you to do anything stupid."

"So you decided the way to remedy stupid decision-making was to fish for hypothermia?"

I silently admitted to myself that it was a reckless call, but I didn't regret it. Better him taking his anger out on cold water than his chances at receiving his scholarship. "No," I said. "Cold just helps shock the system and brings down your blood pressure." Internally, I winced at the medical talk. It was habit. One that was proving difficult to break.

Bellamy didn't say anything for a moment, caught between his dying anger and the freezing water. He shook head, whether in disbelief or exasperation, I couldn't tell. "I'm sorry," he finally said. Though a ribbon of anger was still laced in his voice, I could tell the majority was no longer aimed at me. "For what I said in the car. This is probably deserved."

Water wove through my fingers, my hands buzzing from the low temperature. "It wasn't a form of punishment."

"It feels like one."

I rolled my eyes, and he looked from me and back to the shore. He jerked his head towards it. "C'mon," he said, and started back to the dock.

I hesitated a moment before following after, slow and sluggish. His hand latched onto the dock and he hoisted himself up. Water poured over the wooden planks. The dock tilted more to the side.

When I was close enough, he reached out a hand to me and I eyed it uncertainly. Then I placed my palm in his. It was the same one his father had shook.

Bellamy grabbed onto my other hand and pulled me up. The cool air felt as cold as the water and I shivered. I didn't need a mirror to know my lips were blue.

At my side, Bellamy's shoulders shook, too. I hurriedly collected my shoes and discarded bag, the planks creaking under me. I waited for Bellamy to do the same but when I saw he held only his jacket, I looked at his feet.

He still had his shoes on.


	26. Old Footsteps

**Part two!-Ish. I don't like naming part two's unless it's a one-shot sequence. Please review!**

We rushed to the car, the wind chilling our already frozen clothes. I felt guilty for getting inside wet again but when Bellamy plopped inside without a second thought, I did the same. My jeans squelched under me.

Bellamy turned on the car and blasted the heat as high as it would go. He rubbed his hands together over the wheel, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

I wondered if he was waiting for my apology.

I wondered if he knew one wouldn't be coming.

After a few minutes, he pulled the car back onto the dirt road. It was like déjà vu, being in the car drenched again with Bellamy. We were retracing old footsteps.

We returned to the paved road and neither of us spoke. I expected to my house or back to the school where I'd abandoned my car. And detention. That would go over well with the principal. I almost cringed at the thought.

But when we passed the routes that would take us to either of those places, I asked him where we were going.

"I don't want to dry off at your place again," said Bellamy. "And my place is all the way downtown." As if that answer were sufficient enough, he kept driving until we'd reached a shopping center. He parked in front of a small café.

My eyes narrowed. "Why are we—?"

But he was out of the car the moment he pulled the keys from the ignition.

Now I was starting to regret my pond-diving decision, as I was left with no alternative but to grab my bag and follow in his wake into the café. The wind was so cold it burned and my teeth gnashed together in chattering fits.

I hurried after him and a string of bells chimed as he opened the door. I shook even more once enveloped by the warmth of the café and the brilliant smell of coffee. The place had a cup theme going on. Pictures of cups hung on the walls and decorated the tabletops. They lined the countertops and dangled precariously from the ceiling. An image of one snapping free from the wire and clocking a customer in the head surfaced in my mind.

When the employee behind the counter looked up to greet us, her eyes widened as she took in our dampened state. She looked like she wanted to say something about the trail of water we were leaving behind—especially Bellamy, with his wet shoes—but he walked farther inside before she had a chance.

He went to a rack in the back. Of shirts, I saw. He pulled off two white ones and tossed the other over to me. I snatched it and caught a glance of the logo: _Keep Calm and Drink Coffee._

Bellamy retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and dropped a wet twenty on the counter. I prayed he didn't have his phone on him somewhere.

"Two coffees, please," he told the employee, who looked distastefully at the damp cash.

Bellamy walked over to me. "You change first," he said, motioning with his chin to the small bathroom in the back.

I realized I hadn't said anything. I didn't know whether to be embarrassed at the gawking employee or amused. I went to the bathroom and quickly pulled off my slick shirt and replaced it with the café one. I tugged my jacket on over it, feeling my temperature rise a few degrees.

I emerged a few minutes later, Bellamy was waiting and took my place in the bathroom. I stood outside and waited. The memory of him changing in my own bathroom flashed through my head. I thought of those scars.

Shaking my head, I turned my back to the door just as he came out, the sound making me jump, as if I could be caught thinking about that.

I appraised his shirt, pausing on the saying that was embellished on the front of it: _I'm only as strong as the coffee I drink._

A warning burned in his eyes. "Don't laugh."

I pursed my lips, trying very hard not to and took a seat at one of the cup-adorned tables. I set my bag on the floor and dropped the cold shirt at the edge of the table.

The employee came over with the coffees and I gripped it greedily, letting the warmth seep into my still-cold fingers.

"Thanks," I managed before gulping one scorching sip. I didn't care that it burned off my taste buds. A few of them were worth it.

Bellamy eyed me over his cup, like he was debating whether or not to give me a lecture on jumping into freezing ponds. But the lecture didn't come and after a few awkward minutes, I pulled my bag into my lap and scrounged around for my wallet. I set the Rubik's cube I still had on the table to see the insides more clearly.

Bellamy swiped up the Rubik's cube. "You really carry one of these around with you?"

I drew my eyes back up to him, watching as he messed with the sides, flipping it around in his hands.

Wallet forgotten, I shrugged. "Principal Jaha gave it to me," I said. I dropped my bag on the floor and took the coffee cup back in my hands.

Bellamy shifted another side, messing up the white rows I'd achieved to align. "I never understood the point of these anyway," he mused.

I watched him curiously as he continued to fiddle with the block. "People like them because they're technical. They have a system."

"So you've completed a whole one?"

I shook my head. "I watched a documentary on it."

Slowly, Bellamy looked from the cube to me. The ghost of a smile played around his lips. "You . . . watched a _documentary_ on it?" he asked, disbelieving.

I shrugged like it was utterly normal to watch a forty-five minute show on the purpose of a Rubik's cube. Actually, it hadn't even been my idea. It was Finn who'd wanted to watch it, but that memory hurt, and I didn't mention it.

"I like the idea of them," I said. "But they're kind of infuriating." I couldn't count how many times I'd been tempted to toss the square devil against the wall. Rubik's cubes were the killers of patience.

Bellamy smirked, and gripped a corner of the cube. In one swift movement, he pried one of the squares up. It snapped.

"You broke it," I said, staring down at the jagged piece of cube that now rested in his palm.

"And you said it infuriated you."

"But it's the principal's."

Bellamy grimaced. "Idiocy is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result, so," he set down the cube and pushed it over to me, "who's the real putz?"

I wanted to be annoyed, but it was almost gratifying to see the insufferable toy dismembered on the table.

I pushed away my coffee and picked up the larger portion of the cube. I turned it between my fingers. "What's your favorite color?" I asked suddenly, the question blossoming out of nothing.

A look of genuine surprise crossed over Bellamy's features. He tilted his head to the side, just enough to disturb the brown curls. "What?"

"Your favorite color," I repeated. "I know probably some of the most personal things about you, but nothing simple. Nothing trivial."

"You only know what I've told you," he said.

I shook my head. "Some of the most important things you learn about someone isn't through their words."

Bellamy pursed his lips and shifted the cup of coffee in his hands. He looked at the table and then back at me. "You think you know a lot about me based off…what, actions?"

In answer, I shrugged.

He scoffed, and leaned back in his chair. Then he leaned forward again, as if with newfound interest. "All right. Let's make this interesting then. You tell me something you think you know, and I'll do the same."

I sized him up and couldn't keep away my smirk. I took a sip of coffee, and studied him. "You don't like trusting people," I said. "You let very few in, but those you do trust, you'd do anything for."

He considered this, and finally, gave a small nod. "You don't like to be called Princess."

"That's not a secret."

"The reason is. I used to think you were a spoiled brat that loved the attention. Turns out, you hate it about as much as I do. You don't like being Jaha's pet, because the only expectations you ever cared to exceed were your own."

I stared at him for a moment, so surprised I nearly dropped my coffee. I set it down and leaned forward, too, matching his posture. "You're good with cars," I said. "I'll bet you even know how to hotwire one."

Bellamy inhaled slowly, eyes sharp, gaze as studious as my own. He didn't deny it. "You probably cook a lot, what with your mom AWOL all the time. And yet, you still manage to make an undrinkable cup of coffee."

"You like being in control of things," I said. "Not people, but the situation going on around you. You don't like it when anything unexpected occurs."

Bellamy's lips pressed into a thin line. "You don't like music."

I paused, wondering how he'd know that. But then I remembered my outburst in the car when he'd turned on the radio, and I understood.

I swallowed. "You hate wet clothes, but have a surprising appeal for Jon Bon Jovi."

"Your taste in TV is about as bad as your coffee." Bellamy smirked. "I'd even bet hard money you've watched at least one hospital show, like _House,_ or _Scrubs."_

I grimaced in reply, and his smirk broadened into some semblance of an actual smile.

I took my coffee back in my hands, twisting the cup sleeve around the Styrofoam base. "You don't drink," I said, and almost regretted the mention. It had nothing to do with the aid he'd given me at the party. I knew why he wouldn't want to touch alcohol. If anything could dissuade a person from drinking, it was growing up with an abusive dad and booze tucked inside of toy chests.

The muscle in Bellamy's jaw flexed and his gaze flickered away, only for a moment. Then he looked back at me. "You can't drive in the rain," he said. "Because it reminds you of things you don't want to remember, but won't ever forget." He momentarily looked away again. "At least that's something I can understand."

I gnawed on the inside of my cheek and looked down at my cup. It took its own effort to meet his dark eyes again, sparkling under the dangling table light. "You're terrified of losing your sister, because she's always been your responsibility, and you hate seeing her go home with anyone else that isn't you."

I knew I hit the nail on the head with that one, because the light in Bellamy's eyes diminished some. His grip tightened over the cup and then, as if thinking better about it, he relaxed them.

"You don't want to be a doctor because in your eyes, you've already failed as one," he said slowly, no haughtiness in his voice. "You've put all you could into your studies and then your dad happened, but it made you work harder. And then your boyfriend happened. And now, you don't see a point. You blame yourself for not saving them, and that's why you're bombing in school and dropping everything and acting like you don't care. It's why you refuse to try again. Because the first time hurt you. The second time broke you. But a third…will be enough to kill you."

I didn't say anything. In fact, I was finding it difficult to hold his gaze. I shrugged in an attempt to roll his words off me. It didn't work. "I'm not afraid that it would kill me," I said, glancing out of the shadowed window. An elderly couple strolled by, slow and rickety. Their intertwined fingers rested like a knot between them.

"I'm afraid that it won't." There were some things worse than dying, and that included living with someone else's death on your conscience. It was why people claimed they wish it'd been them instead. Because death was comparatively easier on the dead than it was on the living.

 _"It's selfish,"_ Bellamy's words rang back to me now, the ones he'd spoken to me over the chorus of rain. He was right. But selfish wishes had a knack for being undeterred.

Bellamy grabbed his wet shirt from the tabletop and gestured with a tilt of his head to the door. "We should go," he said, and stood. "I'll drive you back to your car."

I shook my head, retrieving my own waterlogged shirt as well. A few drops sprayed the table's surface. "That's okay. Home's fine. I'd rather walk tomorrow anyway." It wasn't a lie.

Bellamy looked like he thought about protesting, his expression dubious, brows knitted together. But then he dismissed it and gave a small nod. "Okay. If you're sure."

I nodded, and we walked out together. One of the employees bid us a good night and Bellamy held the door open for me.

We didn't speak on the drive to my house, but it wasn't an awkward silence like so many times before. Bellamy wasn't the type to speak without inclination, which was fine by me. He seemed to have a way of speaking without any words at all.

When we pulled over, I thanked him for the coffee and got out. I didn't mention his father or the events that had transpired earlier. He'd been there to witness them himself, after all.

"Hey, Clarke," Bellamy called to me when I was halfway up the drive. The wind chilled my face and made my hands cold from the still-wet shirt I held. I turned back to him, his silhouette shadowed from the dying light. "Yeah?"

Bellamy peered over to see through the passenger window. "It's blue, by the way," he said. He lifted his shoulders in a small, noncommittal shrug.

I bit back a smile as I walked up the rest of the driveway and to the front door.

I didn't hear his car leave its spot until I was safely inside.


	27. Nameless

**No, this chapter is not as long, but the next one is worth it. And sorry my updating isn't as frequent (especially for the 99, I swear that chapter is coming). My dog had her puppies and they take a lot of work, but luckily it's becoming easier. So. Here's the chapter. Next one will be up shortly and I'm very excited to write it. Oh and if any of you have any one-shot ideas for Bellarke, please tell me because my inspiration is...well...I don't have any.**

I'd nearly forgotten about mom's phone call. Nearly. But not completely, and the moment the door closed behind me and went upstairs was when it all came screaming back. My chest tightened but I shoved it away, hurrying up the stairs. I discarded my wet shirt in the laundry and went into my room. Then I dropped onto the corner of my bed and put my head in my hands, trying my best to keep my thoughts as blank as possible. Trying to scrub Bellamy's earlier words from memory. Trying not to think of my mom's empty room and what else I might be able to find throughout the rest of the house.

But the day had been long enough. I didn't even grab any dinner as I switched my damp jeans to sweat ones and crawled into bed, exhausted.

Tomorrow. I'd figure it out tomorrow.

* * *

I was just about to leave when I heard it.

The whine of the door opening, followed by mom's footsteps. Nightshift. I would've walked down then. I was ready to. But then her voice drifted up to me and I realized she was on the phone. Her and that phone.

And just like last time, she was talking to him.

"I'd be eating right now if I weren't so tired," mom was saying, her words carrying up to me beside the banister.

She wandered into the kitchen. A chair leg grated against the floor as she pulled it out. "No, you don't have to do that. Well—no, she's already left for school."

My car. It was still in the school lot. Foreboding bloomed in my stomach, simmering like hot water.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," mom continued, oblivious to the daughter who was hearing every word. There was hesitancy in her voice—enough to tell me she was nowhere near letting the man into my life and I didn't know if I felt grateful or infuriated. A bit of both.

"No that's—fine. Fine." I pictured her raising a hand in defeat. My mom never lost an argument unless it was pitted against dad.

That foreboding feeling grew.

"Twenty minutes?" Another beat of hesitation. "I think that's okay." There was a smile in her voice. "I'll see you soon."

Something lodged into my throat that wouldn't budged no matter how many times I swallowed. She got up from the chair and headed for the stairs.

Maybe I should just make myself known. Catch her in the act. Stop it all. Stop it now. Maybe she'd lie to me again. Maybe I wanted her to.

When she rounded the last flight, I darted into my room.

I stood behind my door, waiting as she got ready. Tired and yet, she was still willing to go out and do something. With him, the nameless man.

I tried to quell the uproar of anger—of _betrayal—_ that ignited inside me. I really did.

Two minutes passed. Then five. I heard her emerge and waited until she left. The wall grew warm under my back. More minutes fell away, but the front door did not open. She did not leave.

And it took me until ten minutes had elapsed for me to realize.

She wasn't meeting him.

He was coming here.

That foreboding throbbed and I unconsciously touched the scar at my chest. I closed my eyes, resisting the urge to run from the room. Hurry out of this house before everything I feared was confirmed. Run before the man reclaimed his name. Before the idea of him was given a body and a face.

But I couldn't move. I remained as still as stone. Waiting.

When the doorbell chimed, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Mom padded to the front door as I stayed behind my door, feeling the air twist inside my lungs. The scar throbbed and I shut my eyes as she opened the door.

A pause. Then I heard them embrace. "You look beautiful," said the man, in a voice I recognized.

I stilled.

 _No._ No it—it couldn't be.

Mom laughed. "Right. Come in."

My mind blanked. The air around me seemed to dissipate until there was little to breathe in. Which was fine; I wasn't breathing anyway.

He sounded different this time, less professional. Involved. And I knew him.

I _knew_ him.

Marcus Kane.

He clapped his hands. "Onward to the kitchen," he said. "Now, you take a seat in the living room and just relax. It's time for me to show off my culinary skills."

"What are you making?"

Kane clucked his tongue. "It's a surprise. Highly confidential." She gave another small, tired laugh and I could see her in my head, standing behind him like she once stood behind my father.

"Aren't you supposed to be relaxing in the living room?" Kane added after a minute.

Mom sighed, exasperated, and her footsteps echoed as she left the kitchen.

"And no peeking!" Kane called after.

My room around me turned, like a carousal. Turning and turning and turning.

It felt as if someone had torn the breath out of my lungs. Marcus Kane. The man I spent one hour, two days a week talking to. Relaying the remnants of my life to. And while I'd shared my personal feelings to him, he'd shared something much more intimate and personal with my mom. Both behind my back and right in front of me.

My legs felt weak.

School, the place I was supposed to be—the place I wanted to be if it meant getting away from this—had already started. I could sneak out and risk being seen, but I couldn't seem to move my feet.

I thought I'd wanted to know. I thought I'd wanted him to have a name. But I suddenly missed my ignorance. Missed not knowing. It was so much harder to picture my mom with someone who didn't have a face. And now that he had one, the images crystallized. I could see them together, laughing. Cooking. Mom with her hand on his shoulder, smiling up at him. Kane occupying another man's space.

I hated it, and I wondered about confronting them. But my legs refused to move. Maybe I really _was_ a masochist, because I didn't do anything that I wanted.

I stayed in my room, and endured it.

The voices. The occasional laugh. I couldn't remember the last time my mom had laughed like that. The smell of something spicy and rich wafted up to me, filling my room, stuffing itself up my nose. I didn't want to hear any of it, but it was like a force kept me from jamming my fingers in my ears. They talked. They laughed. I waited. At some point the voices died away and I thought they must've fallen asleep. I almost went down then, but I couldn't. Hearing it was one thing, but seeing it was another thing entirely.

So I stayed there, watching the light pooling into my room wear as morning dragged into the afternoon.

Mom messaged me once to ask when I would be home.

I told her later.

So he stayed longer.

I didn't know what time it was when I finally heard him say goodbye.

There was a pause that I didn't let my mind linger on for too long. Then he was gone. Mom went into her room. And I quietly crept out, phone in hand. I couldn't be in this house any longer. Not after that. Not after hearing it play out like some romantic film one floor beneath me. But I had nowhere to go.

I paused on the stairs, the phone collecting sweat in my palm.

An idea came to me. It was ludicrous and imposing, but I typed a message, ignoring the feeble voice that told me it was a bad idea.

The text was sent before I'd even crossed the threshold.

* * *

I'd bided my time until evening fell. Having to walk to school helped some, but I couldn't get those thoughts out of my head. The force of them manifested into a headache that raged at both temples. The sky resembled one giant contusion.

Temperatures were dropping and the wind chilled my bare arms. It swept my hair around me, kissing the column of my neck. The metal bird grew cold against my skin. I hadn't brought my jacket—again—and cranked up the heat when I reached my car, sitting idly in front of the now-vacant school.

That was when I'd gotten a text back and I was relieved when it wasn't from my mom.

I stared at the address across the screen, debating. I wondered if park benches were any comfortable. I thought about calling Thalia, but she was a member among those in the lot of people I didn't currently want to talk to. I _didn't_ think about going home.

My eyes stung and the address blurred.

 _Bad idea,_ my mind chided, again and again.

But I forced it silent and put the car into drive.


	28. Unexpected

**Okay, Guys. This is a thirty page chapter for you all. I could've split it into two parts, but I didn't want to. I hope you like it.**

I would admit, perhaps a bit begrudgingly, that my wise choices weren't as prevalent as they once had been. I wondered what past, level-headed Clarke would say to this Clarke, who currently stood in front of Bellamy's door, knuckles raised to its surface. The number 15 winked back at me.

She would, undoubtedly, compose a list of cons this decision would ultimately reap. And if that failed to dissuade me, there was always physically beating me with a textbook to get the message across.

I felt like a stalker. A pathetic stalker who was out of places to crash, that she had resorted to texting a fourteen-year-old to ask for her brother's home address. In a non-creepy way, of course.

Octavia had inquired, with multiple question marks, as to why his address was necessary. And I'd lied, telling her it was because he'd forgotten something at school. I nearly said _my car_ , but stopped myself just in time, knowing that would only prompt more questions.

So not only did that make me a stalker, it also made me a _lying_ stalker.

It seemed my self-respect was seeing new peaks today.

I blew out a long breath, glancing between the door to the hall. A very childish thought came to me, one that involved the method of ding-dong-ditch to see if he was even home.

I quickly shook that thought from my mind. I was here. And as long as I was, I might as well try. All he could do was say no. In multiple volumes.

I forced my knuckles to make contact with the door. Once. It was barely audible and I tried again, a little louder.

A few seconds passed and again, I thought about running. But I stood my ground, even when footsteps sounded and the door was pulled open.

Bellamy appeared before me, plain shirt and jeans that looked like he'd owned for a very long time. Grey socks, that I saw, with an ember of envy, matched. I didn't know why men were more prone to match their socks than women. Or, maybe that was just me.

Behind him, I could smell the vague traces of some kind of pasta emanating from the kitchen. I wondered if he was as particular with food as he was with his coffee.

"Clarke?" he asked, face scrunched together like he was looking at a particularly difficult math question.

For some reason, it had felt less surreal up until this point. Now it was like I was watching this happen to someone else.

"Hey," I said, a little sheepishly.

Bellamy's dark eyes bored into mine, wide and questioning. His eyebrows furrowed and he blinked. "What . . . what are you doing here? How'd you even-?"

"Octavia," I said.

His eyes went a little wider. "Why would you-? Wait, did something happen with Octavia?" Alarm crowded his eyes.

"No," I said quickly, shaking my head. My hands around my phone tightened so hard, the plastic bit into my skin. "No, nothing happened. I uh, asked her for it. For . . . me."

That was a lame explanation, but I had no energy for eloquence. I didn't even have enough energy to look sufficiently embarrassed.

Now that Bellamy was reassured his sister was fine, the confusion returned to his features, filling up every inch of it. "So then why are _you_ here?" There was a hint of accusation in his voice.

I pursed my lips and glanced down the hall. That park bench idea was starting to look more and more appealing.

I forced my eyes back to his. "I um, sort of need a place to stay. For tonight." Then I would face my mom. I'd face it all.

Bellamy tilted his head slightly to the side, right brow hitching higher and higher up his forehead. "What's wrong with your place? Last I checked, it was well-equipped to house two."

 _Mom and Kane together. Eating dinner together. Laughing together._ I could still smell the spice. It clung to my skin like cheap lotion.

"I can't go home," I said brusquely, and then shook my head again. "I mean, I won't. I know this is inconvenient, but if I could just borrow your couch for a night, I'd really appreciate it." _I'll pay you,_ I nearly added.

Bellamy leaned against the door, hand still around the knob. He appraised me, from my jacket-less arms to the plea in my eyes. Or maybe it was a challenge, because if he said no, I _would_ take that park bench over my warm bed.

Something burned in those onyx eyes, like he wanted to ask more. The questions were still there _._ But he didn'task them; he just let go of the knob and pushed the door open. "Come in."

Momentarily stunned, it took me a second to get my feet to move and I followed him in. The warm, woolen smell of his apartment helped chase away the spice that had lingered from my home.

"Close the door," he said.

I did.

When I turned back, I surveyed the apartment. The last time I'd been here, I was either drunk or recovering from being drunk, but it was familiar enough. The old couch still looked comfortable. Jon Bon Jovie stared back at me from his various places on the walls. It was, however, cozier than I remembered it being in my hungover state.

Bellamy returned to the kitchen, stirring something in a small pot. It smelled like Ramen noodles, but one cup must not be enough for him, and two servings couldn't fit in one cup.

I bit the inside of my cheek and rolled on my heels, the awkwardness clinging to us like the heat off the stove.

"Thank you," I said after a while.

Bellamy didn't turn away from the pot, but he did cast me a glance from the corner of his eye. "Want to talk about it?"

I shut my eyes for a moment and shook my head, trying my best to block out the images. How was it a man could make my mother laugh, but her own daughter couldn't?

I opened my eyes. "I really just . . . want to not think of it right now."

Bellamy paused in his stirring. "There's no pond down here, if that's what you mean."

Against my will, I smirked. "No, that's . . . that was a special case."

"Felt real special," I heard him mumble under his breath.

To temper the awkwardness, I wandered into the living room, barely two yards away. No knick-knacks. The TV was still resting on its sad little stand. A picture of him and Octavia sat on a pile of magazines. Magazines, I saw, not regarding cars or girls, but music. I glimpsed the image of a treble cleft peeking out from under the frame.

I glanced from the stack to the Bon Jovi posters to Bellamy. I arched a brow at him, relieved at the shift in focus. "Do you play an instrument?"

He didn't turn around, just continued to stir and check on the rest of whatever he was making. "Did I give you permission to snoop through my things?"

"Do you?" I pressed.

Finally he looked over at me, lips pursed in exasperation. He shrugged and glanced away, almost shyly. "Not really."

I wasn't buying it.

"What is it?" I asked, my curiosity gnawing on me. My gaze dropped from his eyes to his hands, as if they would tell me whether they stroked strings or keys.

Bellamy returned to his pot. "It's nothing. I haven't played in months."

"Guitar?" I wonder aloud, still watching his hands.

"No."

I chewed on my bottom lip and crossed my arms, scrutinizing him through narrowed eyes. "Violin?"

He shook his head.

"Clarinet?"

"Oh please."

"Trombone?"

From over his shoulder, Bellamy cast me an incredulous look. It was appropriate, since the image of him playing such a large instrument was almost enough to push me over the edge and into hysterics.

I thrummed my fingers against my arm. "Piano?"

Bellamy shrugged again, which I took as a yes. This didn't surprise me; his fingers were long. Ideal for piano, or so I'd been told.

"How long have you been playing for?"

"What's with the twenty questions?" He asked. "I already said yes to the couch."

"That long, huh?"

Bellamy let out a small scoff and glanced at me again, that ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His smiles were about as rare as my mom's laugh.

"A while," he finally said. "I picked it up when I was younger and practiced whenever I could."

I didn't bother looking around the small space for confirmation before I said, "There's no piano here."

He switched stirring hands. "I'm aware."

"Not even a keyboard."

"Not even a kid's xylophone," he said with a nod.

I stared at his back, understanding dawning on me. He couldn't afford a piano. Or a keyboard. All his money probably went to food and the essentials, not pricey gadgets. My heart pinched at the thought. It was like a writer without paper, or an artist without pencils. It was like a doctor without surgical instruments.

I jammed my thumbs in my jean pockets. "You know, the hospital uptown has a piano in their lobby. Apparently, there's a study on how piano music,-well, any music really-helps soothe anxiety. Not just for the patients, but for those waiting, too."

Bellamy flicked off the stove and removed a smaller pot. He took it over to the sink and drained the water. A column of steam rose up before him. "Sounds like an uplifting atmosphere," he said.

"I remember someone playing it after the accident, when I was taken in." The words were out before I could think twice and the scar ached, but it was too late to take them back. That day was a haze, full of mangled metal and the color red. I remembered staring at the lights of the hospital as I was wheeled beneath them on a stretcher. And then I'd heard those tinkering notes, coming from somewhere else.

I had wondered if that meant I was dying. And that if I was, it wasn't so bad.

A knot formed at the base of my throat, making it difficult to swallow."That study is well-founded."

Bellamy's eyes met mine through the fading remnants of steam. Something in his face tightened. "I thought you didn't like music," he said.

I shrugged, wishing I had kept the natural course of this conversation. That I hadn't mentioned any of this. I glanced back to the stacks of magazines. "I don't."

The song had soothed me then. But it had stopped by the time I woke up to find my mom at my bedside, and the loss of my father so clear in her eyes.

Bellamy didn't say anything and after a minute, I looked back at him.

His jaw was clenched but he had no remark for me. Instead, he raised the small pot of noodles a fraction of an inch. "You hungry?"

* * *

I didn't realize how starved I was until I sat on the couch, fingers curled around a hot bowl of Ramen noodles. It looked fancier in glass than it did in Styrofoam.

I'd rejected his first offer to help him eat his dinner, but something-undoubtedly my rumbling stomach-must've given me away because Bellamy had wordlessly handed over a second bowl.

Now he sat adjacent to me, using the coffee table as an impromptu chair even though there was enough room for the both of us on the couch. We ate in silence, which was fine by me. My focus was entirely consumed by the food burning my mouth. I didn't care that I could barely feel my tongue by the time I was done.

I swiped at a trickle of juice from my chin. "Thank you," I said, again entertaining the thought of paying him. But I settled for taking my dish over to the sink and washing it.

Before I could even ask, he said, "farthest cupboard to your left."

He only had three lining the wall, so it wasn't that difficult to deduce which one he was referring to.

When I put my bowl away and my utensil in a little jar on the counter, I reentered the living room, that discomfort bleeding back into our silence again. Silence I was beginning to loathe, because it let my mind wander. To my mom in her room. To Marcus in his office. To their leftover plates in the sink I would clean the following day.

Clearing his throat, Bellamy stood and strode into his bedroom. For a second I thought he was going to bed. But then he came out a few seconds later, two folded blankets in his hands. He plopped them on the couch and looked over at me.

I could've sworn by the jerkiness of his movements that he seemed . . . well, nervous.

He folded his arms across his chest like he didn't quite know what to do with his hands. Then he seemed to realize he looked like an angry parent and dropped them to his sides. "Do you . . . need a pillow or something?" he asked.

I wrapped my own hand around my elbow and shook my head. "It's fine. I'll just use the couch cushion." Or just lie flat, with my feet hanging over the sides. That image looked less than appealing, But it was better than a park bench.

Bellamy bobbed his head curtly. He looked between me and his door, still ajar from when he walked through with the blankets. Then he jabbed a thumb towards it. "I'll…see you tomorrow," he said, turning on his heels. "Bathroom's out the front door, down the hall to your right," he added without stopping or looking at me, like he was eager to leave the room.

I heard the door click quietly shut behind him.

* * *

 _The living room no longer felt empty._

 _That was the first thing I realized as I lounged on the couch, my mom on one side of me, my dad on the other. I felt like it should be weird seeing him. But it wasn't. It felt like just another average day._

 _The TV was on and I recognized it as a medical drama. Stethoscopes and actors in white rushing past the screen to their patients. A bowl of popcorn materialized between my hands and I grabbed a handful. My mom did the same._

 _"_ _Oh, that's ridiculous!" she shouted from my right, throwing a piece of popcorn at the screen. "You would not use that size blade in that kind of surgery!"_

 _Dad snatched up a few pieces of popcorn for himself. "Maybe that person has a smaller neck."_

 _I snickered and snuggled deeper in the couch, propping my feet up on the coffee table._

 _Mom prodded me in the shoulder. "Don't listen to him. That," she gestured a popcorn-filled fist to the screen, "is a medical travesty."_

 _"_ _Or maybe they do it specifically to get under the skin of experts like you," Dad added, smiling wickedly at her._

 _I laughed and shook my head, shifting to give both parents a look._

 _But when I turned to my dad, he wasn't there anymore._ _Someone had taken his place. Someone with slick brown hair and crossed legs._

 _A jolt ran through me but Marcus Kane didn't notice. His eyes were on the screen, as if he'd been watching it the whole time._

 _I jerked away from him, slamming my shoulder into my mom, keeping my eyes on Marcus. No, this wasn't right. It couldn't be._

 _"_ _Where's my dad?" I asked as calmly as I could muster, sparing a furtive glance towards the kitchen. Empty. Hall; empty. The fullness of this house suddenly bled out like a punctured water balloon._

 _"_ _Mom?" I asked, twisting around to face her. A bead of panic leaked into my voice. She would know what was going on._

 _But before she could answer, the scene evaporated and I was suddenly standing in the kitchen when the front door opened and in came the heavy squelch of my dad's sneakers. "Bakery was open," he called from the entry. "I know your mom has a thing against preservatives and the potential for GMO, so of course, I bought a dozen muffins."_

 _That was an inside joke in our house. After work, dad would sometimes stop by a grocery store or some bakery to get baked goods, just to see if mom would cave_ again _._

 _She always announced she wouldn't._

 _She announced it every time._

 _A smile was already spreading across my face, previous fear forgotten, as I started over to greet him and swipe up a muffin. But it froze, when I saw the man who turned the corner._

 _I stared. Because it wasn't my father._

 _Marcus Kane smiled at me, white box in hand. He flipped open the corner. "Got blueberry; your favorite."_

 _I suddenly had no appetite._ No _, I wanted to say. And maybe I did, I just couldn't hear it over the chorus of wrongness screaming in my ears. Because this_ was _wrong. This was my family's joke, not his. Why was he-?_

 _But then the scene fragmented and broke apart._

 _This time, I was in my dad's office, all oak desk and family pictures. His chair swiveled around so it wasn't facing me. A paper was in my hand, a red A painted in the top corner. There was a grin on my face as I said, "Guess who got top grade in her trig quiz?" I brandished the paper to him._

 _"_ _Bragging rights," he replied._

 _The chair turned around._

 _Marcus was in my father's chair._

 _He didn't notice my silence, or how the grin slipped off my face. He was too busy studying the paper as I studied the pictures around him. Family photos, of me, and my mom, and…Marcus._

 _I stared at them, as the office around me crumbled away. Yet those pictures didn't follow after it. No, they zoomed in on me, encompassing me. They flashed through my head. Memories of my parents. Of us all together. But never was it my father in them. It was always Marcus._

 _Marcus, teaching me to ride a bike._

 _Marcus, counting shooting stars with me as we lay on the front lawn._

 _Marcus, taking me to get my driver's license._

 _Marcus, and not my father._

 _"_ _No," I said, as the images surged around me. All of them the same as I remembered, save for the man who stood in my dad's place, like he was photoshopped into my memories._

 _They swirled around and around, smothering me. "Where's my dad?" I asked Marcus, again and again as he flashed by with every image. But he didn't answer. My mom didn't seem to notice the man she was with didn't have the same eyes as her daughter._

 _The pace sped up, as I was forced to walk through each memory._

 _"_ _I want my dad," I told Marcus as we got ice cream downtown._

 _As he helped me study my flashcards on the sympathetic nervous system._

 _As we blasted Danny Boy over the radio and he paused, waiting for my cue._

 _But I didn't take it._

 _"_ _I want my dad," I told him, as the music rose in volume, a crescendo in this tight car that felt as if it were growing smaller and smaller, curling itself around me. But Marcus continued the song. The music shredded my eardrums and panic became a hot, raging thing inside my chest, just over my scar._

 _I want my dad, I tried again, but the words didn't make it past my lips._

 _They couldn't, over the flood of rainwater that suddenly came pouring into the car, filling my mouth and collecting in my lungs._

 _I choked._ Dad! _I wanted to scream._ Dad! _But I was drowning in rainwater, black novas the size of nickels exploding across my vision._

 _The rainwater suddenly didn't taste like rainwater anymore, but blood._

 _I cried, as my panic morphed into something feral, something I couldn't control. I called out for my dad again, waiting for an answer. For anything._

 _And somewhere, somehow, a sweet melody began to play._

* * *

I jolted up, the blanket twisted around my waist causing me to lose my balance and fall between the couch and the coffee table. My knee slammed against the table leg, and I distantly heard a door open.

The light flickered on and someone called my name but I didn't look up, too preoccupied with trying to get air in my lungs, my chest splintering. I blinked rapidly, waiting for that dream to shatter and fade like ash.

There were fast footsteps and then warm hands touched my shoulders.

"Clarke? Clarke, what happened?" Bellamy asked, the anxiety clear in his voice.

That dream—that nightmare—was already starting to fade like I'd hoped, and Bellamy's apartment crystallized around me. I realized I was wedged between the furniture, gasping for breath that was clearly there. And behind me was Bellamy, leaning over my left shoulder to see my face.

"Clarke," Bellamy ground, gentle but forceful. " _Tell_ me."

I shook my head and pulled myself up. Bellamy kept his hands on my shoulders, probably ensuring I wouldn't fall again.

Once sitting upright on the couch, I tried to take more leveled breaths as Bellamy sat too, wide eyes frozen on me.

Seconds passed and I realized my hands were clenched around the blanket. I instantly loosened my fingers.

"What was it?" Bellamy asked softly, finally letting his hand fall from my shoulder. He dropped them in his lap.

I gave my head another shake. "It was nothing. Sorry for waking you." I didn't know which I felt more: guilty, for having taken both his couch and his sleep, or embarrassed, at him finding me on the floor. Both. Definitely both.

"That didn't look like nothing, Clarke," he said, and hesitated, only for a moment, before adding, "What exactly happened yesterday?"

My hands shook. "I said I didn't want to talk about it," I murmured.

"And how'd that work out for you?"

I swallowed, well aware of the sweat still slicking my palms. I looked at him. His curly hair cast shadows over his face, making his eyes look black instead of brown. "This isn't your problem."

"Which is exactly why I'm asking," he deadpanned. He leaned back in the couch, close enough that his knee nearly grazed mine. He crossed his arms and waited, a clear sign that this was not up for debate. He never moved those eyes off me.

I chewed on my bottom lip and had little choice but to relent. Keeping it to myself didn't make it any less true. Maybe saying it would prove as much. But it didn't make the words any easier to get out.

"My mom," something in my throat felt tight and I had to swallow again. "My mom started seeing my therapist."

Bellamy's eyebrows drew together and I could practically hear the retort forming in his mind, but, for what I assumed was my benefit, he refrained. "That's…good isn't it? Gives her someone to talk to"—

"No," I interrupted. " _Seeing,_ as in personally. Dating."

"Oh." That confusion lingered in his face. "Why . . . I mean I get the whole thing with your dad, but is that really so bad it called for you leaving home and crashing here?"

I sighed, casting a glance down at my hands. A honk came from the intersection outside the windows. "It wouldn't be, if she had just bothered to mention that the therapist she told me to go to was the man she was also seeing behind my back."

Understanding bloomed in Bellamy's eyes. "Are you sure?"

I actually smiled, at the absurdity of the situation. Maybe I was really starting to lose it. "My mom thought I'd already left this morning. Or yesterday, I guess." Those nightmarish images swelled up again. "So she brought him home."

"And you were there?"

I nodded, wringing my pinkie finger.

"What'd you say?"

I pursed my lips. "I didn't say anything. They didn't even know I was there. I uh, sort of stayed in my room."

A pause. "Was that why you weren't in school?"

"Yeah." I smirked without humor. "Pretty ridiculous, right?"

"Clarke—"

"Sorry, I shouldn't be telling you this. You- of all people," I said. "You're the one dealing with an ex-con and I'm complaining over who my mom is dating?" I shook my head incredulously. "But I just . . . I _deserved_ to know that the guy I was talking to about my dad and Finn and my _life_ , was potentially my future . . ." _step-father,_ I thought, but I couldn't manage the word.

I loosed another breath, not exactly feeling better, but I did feel lighter, like voicing it lessened the load of knowing it.

At my side, Bellamy made no comment. His eyes went from me to gaze straight ahead. "Jae's trying to get approved for visiting hours," he said, so low I almost missed it. "With Octavia."

It took me off guard, that he was telling me this, but I quickly shook it off. In fact, I felt a bit of gratification that he hadn't called him dad. It diminished almost instantly. _Visiting hours._

"But—how can he do that?" I said, voice piquing as the reminders of my own issues dissolved. "They know what he went to jail for"—

"Yeah, drug and alcohol abuse they blamed for his _behavior_ ," the last word was imbued with venom. Bellamy's hands clenched into fists.

"But only under someone else's supervision, right?" I asked.

An expression I couldn't name flooded into his face. Dark and unyielding. I knew it was just the reflection of the light in his eyes, but just now, it looked like a thimble of flame. "That's the thing," His words came out low. "He wants _me_ to be the one who supervises."

My mouth popped open a bit as I stared at him, a number of expletives running through my mind. My own anger lit inside the pit of my stomach, but I shoved it away, not wanting to add my own fuel to his fire. I scrutinized him, keeping my voice calm. "You're going to do it, aren't you?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"How would you know?" He asked, going on the defensive.

I grimaced. "Because no one can protect your sister like you can. So you'll go to keep her safe, just as you've done for her entire life."

That perplexed look returned to his face, tinged with scrutiny, like he wanted to tell me I was wrong. That I didn't know him so well as to start predicting his choices, and maybe I didn't. But I knew that one. And so did he, which left us in a moment of silence.

He pulled his feet onto the coffee table and rested his head against the couch cushion. "So what're you going to do about your mom?"

I sighed and followed suit, pulling the blanket up to my chest. I played with a loose thread at the end. "Confront her, I guess."

"Oh, that sounds confident," Bellamy remarked sarcastically.

"It's better than nothing. I'm just," I shrugged, "not sure there's anything she could say that would make me feel better."

"I don't think there's anything _anyone_ could say that would make you feel better."

"How promising," I chided, shifting to give him a faux look of enthusiasm. "Have you ever thought about being a motivational speaker?"

Bellamy smirked, and the heat in his gaze abated some. I thought back to when he'd first found Octavia at school, and wondered if I'd ever see that kind of smile on him again.

He reached for the remote on the table and sat back. He clicked on the TV, the light momentarily stinging my eyes.

"You aren't going back to bed?" I asked, surprised.

Bellamy returned his head to the cushion. "I'd still be in bed if somebody hadn't woken me up."

That guilt mounted but there wasn't any anger in his voice. "I wasn't aware there was anything good on this late at night."

Bellamy began flipping through the channels, pillowing his head with the other arm. "Oh sure. I bet they save all the best shows for two am."

* * *

I was woken by the pang of light burning against my closed eyes. I mumbled to myself how I should've closed the blinds before going to bed as I peeled back my lids.

I squinted, catching the flood of sun streaming in from panels of glass. And then I remembered. Right. There were no blinds, because this was not my room. Not my house. I recalled the previous day. The nightmare. Falling asleep to the food network.

Something warm tickled my cheek and I turned my head.

I froze.

Lying there, not even an inch from my face, was Bellamy.

He was asleep, and the effect it had on him was startling; it was like years had melted from his features. The tightness in his face was gone. The perpetual worry line between his brows was, for once, smooth. This close up, I could count his freckles, splattered across his cheeks and nose like someone had gone rampant with a dark paint.

His breathing was deep and even and when he exhaled, it disrupted a strand of my hair. I became aware of his leg, now pressed against mine. Heat blossomed over me at the contact.

And suddenly, I couldn't move. It was like I was back in my room again, made of stone and unable to do anything but stare.

Some invisible pull dragged my eyes down, down, down to his lips.

And that was when my heart did something very weird and unexpected:

It started to pound.


	29. One Step Forward

**This is actually reminiscent of a modern Pride and Prejudice. Bellamy even has a little sister, Clarke started to dislike him based off his bad manners and countenance. His pride, her prejudice. I hope everything is okay in this chapter; it's not edited because I just wanted it finished today. Please review!**

Heat flooded my cheeks and some foreign sensation danced up my nerves from where our legs touched, setting my skin on fire.

I blanched, as my mind flashed back to that conversation I'd had with Thalia, a lifetime ago, Finn at my side drinking Cherry Coke from a carton intended for milk. A talk of sparks and heat and melted sundaes.

 _No_.

My brain was in overdrive and a feeling of unease had already started in my chest and was now seeping into the rest of me.

I kept my eyes on Bellamy, daring that feeling to continue. Daring my internal organs to betray me and continue their acrobatics.

They did.

So I left.

I quietly removed myself from the couch, careful not to jostle him. When I actually broke my gaze from his profile, my heart calmed enough that I could almost convince myself I'd imagined it, but I was so unsettled I wasn't comfortable with staying.

I pulled out a loose leaf of paper I found along with a pen and jotted down a note for him to find: _Didn't want to wake you again. Thank you for last night. Wish me luck._

The words resonated a sense of bravery, but it was artificial. In reality, I was a coward.

I eased the door shut. Only when it was closed did I pick up my pace and practically run from the apartment. I nearly tripped on the stairs. I actually did trip on the threshold I crossed over. Goosebumps coated my arms, but the heat simmering in my stomach kept me a few degrees warmer.

I shook my head vigorously when I was seated behind the wheel of my car, staring out at the frozen dew clinging to the windshield like crystallized sugar.

My knuckles were white from the pressure I held the wheel with and I rested my head against it, wary not to set off the horn.

"You're just tired," I told myself in the solitude of my car. Right. That's what it had been. Just exhaustion. I was so overwhelmed, especially after the thing with my mom, that my neurons had started misfiring, creating—

 _Stop._

Like a switch, I shut off that way of thinking, chalking it up to exhaustion and nothing more. I had been in his place. Eating his dinner. Speaking to him about personal things. And then I'd woken up to find him right there, and it had taken me off guard.

That's all it was. That's all it could be.

It didn't console me, however, as I drove back the way I'd come. It just felt as if someone had just given me another problem to solve when I already had one at home, waiting for me. Maybe it was impossible to ever be problem-free, but that didn't stop me from wishing I could be. Just for a little while.

There were a few things I expected to find when I pulled up to the house. Ludicrous things. I pictured Marcus's car in the driveway, even though I didn't know what kind of car he owned. I pictured a black Sedan, and professional like him.

I imagined a pair of discarded shoes by the front door, because Marcus Kane was so clearly not the type to walk in with them on. The welcome sign seemed to glare back at me.

Mom was waiting for me inside.

The moment I opened the door and turned, I heard her on the stairs, pace synchronized. Very doctor.

Her brown hair was frayed in its ponytail, like she'd run her hands over it one-too many times. She still wore her scrubs and I wondered if she'd just gotten home or had been waiting up for me, and just hadn't changed yet.

Shadows colored the skin under her eyes as she looked at me, gaze filled with relief and soon-to-be fury. She wore no shoes.

A piece of guilt fluttered around inside me and I quickly squandered it. I would feel bad for not telling her where I'd gone to. I'd feel bad for that, and nothing more.

Before I could blink, I was in her arms. She hugged me too her and pulled back a second later, scanning me from head to toe for bodily injuries. When she found none, that fury made its debut.

"Where have you been?" she asked, each word spoken slowly. Deliberately.

I refused to buckle under her anger and raised my head. I was just a fraction of an inch taller but my mom's presence had a way of dissolving that and making me feel small. But not today.

"I was at a friend's," I said, even-toned. It surprised me.

My mom crossed her arms over her chest. "Would you mind telling me which friend you're referring to? Because I called Thalia, and she said the two of you haven't spoken in weeks."

I clenched my jaw. "I have other friends besides her, Mom." Technically, I had two, both related.

"I'm sure you do. But the only thing I'm interested in right now is learning which one you were with all night," she said, that barb so clear in her voice. "And I want the truth."

I stared at her in disbelief, suddenly wanting to laugh. I thought a trace of it actually escaped from my lips. "You? _You_ want the truth? What about me?" I asked, the smoothness in my tone going rocky. "I wasn't under the impression that truth was a one-way street."

The fury diminished just enough for her to look perplexed. "What are you talking about?"

If I could fold my arms and blink like Genie, I would make myself vanish just to avoid this. But I couldn't. I was wading in it now.

"Are you sure you don't have anything to tell me?" I asked. I didn't know why, but I was actually giving her a chance. I didn't know whether or not I wanted her to take it, but it would've been nice to know she'd at least been planning to tell me. To not continue keeping me in the dark.

"We're talking about _you_ , Clarke."

Or maybe, it would've made no difference at all.

"How long?" I asked, so, so softly, the image of her dissipating like a mirage as my eyes glazed over.

Another chance. Another loss. "How long, what?"

"How long have you been seeing Marcus Kane?"

Her face blanched. I watched the color fade like her cheeks had been coated in white-out. "What?"

"I know," I said quietly, voice jaded. "I know everything, unless I somehow misinterpreted the dinner between you two. The phone calls. That's why you sent me to him, isn't it?"

Mom dropped her crossed arms and took a step forward. I took a step back. Then she let that hand drop, too. "I was going to tell you."

I scoffed. "When?"

"Soon," she deflected. "Once I thought you were ready."

"And this? Is this your definition of ready?" I asked, my tone returning to that unsettling calm, taking it all in with maddening clarity.

"I didn't want it to happen like this," she said, pleading.

"No. I imagine not."

"Clarke"—

"You still haven't answered my question," I said, resisting the instinct to back up more. To run to my room and stay there. To leave this house completely. "How long?"

I thought a couple months. Three at worst. Because it couldn't possibly have been more. Dad had only been gone for little over a year. She couldn't have—

"June," she breathed. "June was . . . when it started."

That carousal started up again as her admission spun around me, making me dizzy. Christmas was just around the corner, which meant that she and Marcus had been together nearly six months.

The floor threatened to snap from under me.

"No," I breathed, my voice stripped to a whisper. "No, because . . . you wouldn't do that." I couldn't have been living in lies for that long. I would've known. _I would have known._

But then it struck me. How could I? I'd still been trying to navigate the ways of the world without my dad, only to lose Finn along the way, to really s _ee_ anything beyond my own pain. Grief had been my constant companion these last fifteen months and I'd made the assumption that it was my mother's too.

And perhaps it was. But at some point within that time, she'd learned those ways herself and had started to move on. Ahead of me. Without me.

"Six months," I repeated, more to myself than to her, and I wanted to drag the words back into my mouth. They tasted of something burnt and bitter.

Was it really possible to move on so quickly? I thought about all the kisses and embraces my parents exchanged. All the smiles and handholding and covert whispering. Secrets not meant for me. And it was then, against my will, that I started questioning the one thing I had always been certain of: The love between my parents.

"I have to go to school," I said, picking up my bag from the floor and turning on my heel. I was never more thankful for a Friday. Never more thankful for hours spent in class if it gave me an escape.

She called after me, of course, insisting that we talk about it.

But I didn't want to talk and I let the closing of the door behind me be my answer.

I wish I'd never found out the truth. I wish I was still in the dark. Ignorance really _was_ bliss. But you never knew it was bliss until after its spelled was broken.

* * *

I didn't care that I was late. I didn't care that principal Jaha would call me into his office again and give me double's worth of detention. I didn't care. My goal for today was to avoid home for as long as possible, along with a certain freckled someone. I needed a time out just to catch my breath and after the lunch bell tolled and the principal did indeed give me that detention, I ducked into the girls' bathroom.

My breathing was irregular and I leaned against the wall, letting the coolness of it seep into my back. Too much. This was too much to absorb in one day. I felt like I was on the verge of exploding. Or crying. And felt weak for feeling either. In result, I just stared at the mirror, letting the reflection of my eyes bore into themselves. It was odd how I seemed so put together, so _whole,_ for someone so broken on the inside.

I stayed like that until someone entered and I withdrew from the wall. The girl gave me a weird look as I turned away and left the bathroom.

In the hall, I was just about to head to my next class early when a jacketed figure snagged my attention. The person I'd reverted back to my old routine, by trying to avoid him.

Nothing was in my favor today as Bellamy's eyes met mine.

My heart shuddered, and I couldn't tell if that was the same as its earlier choreography or because of my being taken off-guard by being caught.

It didn't matter. I felt myself nearing that edge, wanting to shout just to rattle my own ears. And since I'd already owned the title of coward once today, I saw little harm in claiming it again.

So I promptly dropped my gaze in the hopes he'd think I hadn't seen him.

It was a stupid hope, proven a few seconds later when a hand landed on my shoulder and I jolted back. Turning around, I found him standing there, backpack slung on one arm and an unreadable expression on his face. "Didn't mean to scare you," he said.

It was made clear that things were not in my favor today.

"I got your note," he started, a bit awkwardly, and maybe I was imagining it, but I thought I caught a hard edge to his voice. But that was hardly unusual. He cast a glance around and dropped his voice, leaning slightly forward. "You couldn't bother to wait?"

I leaned backwards and sighed, running a hand through my hair. It was knotted and my finger caught. "I wanted to get _that_ _thing_ with my mom over with," I emphasized. It was a half-truth at least.

He simpered, brows knitting together. "How'd that go?"

I swallowed, overly aware of his proximity, like there was something improper about it. "Not . . . great," I admitted.

"Why? Other than the obvious."

My emotions were still running high and this wasn't helping. Or perhaps this was the crash. The crash I was becoming so intimate with. "I think my problems have imposed on you long enough."

He slung his backpack higher. "Let me be the judge of that. Your problems"—

"I know," I interrupted, more brusque than intended. "You're under no obligation to anything with another person's problems, I remember."

Bellamy pulled back slightly. "What's your problem today?"

"I told you; it didn't go over well with my mom."

"Right. Your _mom_. You were the one who decided to crash at my place. So why are you getting pissed at me?"

I didn't realize I was. Didn't realize those emotions along with the confusion from this morning were coming undone, escaping into my words, my voice. But I couldn't stop it. I was overflowing, unable to dam the water so shortly after the flood.

"Why do you assume you're the only one with the license to get angry?" I said. "As I recall, you've gotten pissed at other people undeserving of it, so why can't I get mad? Why can't I get pissed off at the crappy things in my life without feeling weak or pathetic or sheltered, like what I've dealt with is somehow insufficient to _you?_ " I shook my head. "Every time I feel myself moving just a fraction forward, something else gets in the way. And I'm tired of it. Maybe I should just resolve to be angry at the world. It seems to work for some people." I took in a breath, only then registering my own words. Heat flooded my cheeks and I suddenly felt mortified. I was grateful that I hadn't least started shouting in the middle of the hall.

But that didn't seem to make any difference to Bellamy. I watched as his face hardened and I wished I could take them back. Wished with as much force as I'd been wishing for a lot of things lately. "Bellamy, I'm"—

He came a step closer, not quite getting in my face, for how tall he was, but close enough to make some of our classmates glance over in interest. I ignored them.

"Anger," Bellamy told me, "does you no good if you don't have a motive to put it into. You're pissed. Fine. Then do something about it, Clarke. Get pissed off and then take whatever control you can manage to get a hold of in this world and change something."

My anger was gone, replaced by a tiredness I felt down to my bones. I just wanted some reprieve. To get somewhere without fearing that place was two steps back. "Like what?"

He shrugged a shoulder, not bothering to soften his voice. "For starters? Like picking up a textbook and deigning to _try."_ He shook his head and though I knew he must still be mad, there was an understanding in his eyes. A challenge. "Quit playing the coward, Clarke," he told me as he stepped away. "It doesn't suit you."

* * *

My mom was, miraculously, not home when I returned there. It was a small relief, but I honestly didn't think I could take another confrontation with her today. What I craved the most was my own room and my own bed and I barely remembered to change before I dropped onto it and fell back, staring up at my ceiling.

Bellamy's words rang back to me and I was uncomfortable with how close he was to truth. Or maybe it was the truth, and my excuses had just made it look bigger and more complicated than it really was.

People were delusional to believe that they could control every aspect of their own lives. There were too many variables at play, like navigating a high beam. One wrong turn, one _mistake,_ and you'd lose your balance and fall. That's what life was. Interminable. Terrifyingly unpredictable.

I knew that about as much as anyone probably could; was reminded of it daily, by such simple and insignificant things it was a wonder I hadn't raised my voice to Bellamy earlier.

I turned my head, just enough to see the stack of books piled in my room. The medical ones I'd discarded—and dismembered—but the ones for school still remained intact.

 _"Get pissed off and then take whatever control you can manage to get a hold of in this world and change something."_

I _was_ pissed off. At my mom for dating, at Marcus for being the man she was dating. At Finn and my dad for dying. At myself, for staying still as my mom and the rest of the world kept going.

Maybe my decision to not become a doctor was legitimate. Maybe I hated the title Arkadia had given me. But if I wanted out, away from the reminders, I needed another place to go, and a drop in my GPA would ensure I stayed exactly where I was.

It was just studying. Just a foot in some direction, yet I still felt hesitant, like it was something monumental. Maybe in its own way, it was.

Slowly, I pulled myself into a sitting position. I leaned over and picked up my English textbook from the pile at the foot of my bed, weighing it in my palms.

 _"Quit playing the coward, Clarke."_

I flipped open the cover.


	30. Balm

**I AM SO SORRY. Ugh, I just had writer's block with this story and was looking for inspiration and it's not really edited and I don't like the beginning but I'm updating anyway because it's been too long for you all.**

The only thing that seemed to improve the following week were my grades.

Distance did nothing to ease my resentment, crouching low in my gut whenever I spotted my mom after work.

The distance was not what had cracked us apart in the first place. The ground had already been pried open by a headstone that was engraved with my dad's name, but my mom's actions had dismantled the tedious bridge assembled between us. It was impossible to think one could feel farther from someone living than from the dead, but suddenly, I did.

I tried brushing it off. Tried telling myself all sorts of things, as I lay sprawled stomach-first over my bed, flipping through my Trig book.

 _She didn't want to make it harder on me, especially after Finn._

 _She made a mistake. She thought she was doing what was best._

 _Just because she's with someone doesn't mean she didn't love Dad any less._

But the last one was the one that stuck with me the most. I couldn't get over the time. Half a year. She'd had half a year to tell me the truth and discarded every opportunity to. She'd decided I couldn't handle it. After surviving a collision, my dad's death, Finn's death, she still thought me weak.

At school, I immersed myself back in my studies, receiving approving looks from teachers whenever they handed out results to a pop quiz. It helped me mentally, but did little to boost my spirits.

That especially became true when, as the week drew to a close and I was returning to my locker, a familiar voice called out to me.

I turned around, meeting Octavia's big eyes, her brown hair fanned around her shoulders. A pile of books were clutched in her hands as she made her way over, taking care not to drop any of them. She came to a halt before me.

"Hey," she said, giving me a big smile that instantly made me suspicious.

I returned its smaller version, the smirk. "Hey, Octavia. Is everything all right?" My first thoughts jumped to Bellamy, and then I mentally chastised myself for it, shunning away the confusion that topic for the umpteenth time this week. I was still confused about what had happened the second night I'd stayed over and was in no mood to psychoanalyze it now.

Octavia shrugged. "Nothing much. Um, I just . . . uh. . . ." she bit her lip and her fingers thrummed the base of the books, like she was nervous. Her anxiety bled into me, followed by a growing sense of foreboding. Often she came to request a favor. Favors that ill-fated things seemed to have a way of following after.

"I feel weird asking you this," she started with, which didn't help curb my own anxiety.

"That never really stopped you before," I said, but not rudely. I liked Octavia, even if her requests were often out of the blue and not exactly wanted. "What is it?"

"My Dad," she blurted.

Distaste curled inside me, threatening to wrinkle my nose. I refrained for her sake.

"He wants to spend Christmas Eve with me and wants Bellamy there, too. Says he wants to make . . . amends."

It was much harder to keep myself from choking on that.

Octavia moved her weight from foot to foot and held her hands palms up, beseechingly. "I was hoping you'd come with us because I have no idea what could happen, but I have a feeling none of the possibilities are good. Not with Bellamy. And you have a way of . . . tempering him."

This time, I did wrinkle my nose. "Like a dog?"

"Like a balm," she clarified, though a red flush stood on her cheeks. She sighed. "Look, I get it if you have better things to do. But I'm just . . . I'm scared, Clarke. I don't want this to end as badly as I know it can."

I stared at her, taking in the desperation pooling in her vivid blue eyes. The worry lining her young features. Every sensible instinct told me to say no, and even if this were a good idea, Octavia was wrong about one thing. I didn't have anything to do on Christmas Eve. Picturing myself seated across my mom skirting an argument was enough to make Octavia's offer the lesser of two evils. For now.

"What about Bellamy?" I asked, before I gave her my answer. I still hadn't spoken to him directly yet, not since last week, right before the start of Christmas break. Not since he'd told me to stop playing coward and fight for change. My mom wasn't the only one I was distanced from. "Shouldn't you run this by him? He might not want me there."

Octavia shrugged and something _older_ appeared in her face. Suddenly she sounded tired. "Honestly, Clarke, I don't think much of his attention will be on either of us."

I had a feeling she was right.

* * *

I was starting to really wonder about my judgement, and how intact it really was. Because seated in my car, staring at the Italian restaurant that rose like something monolithic before me, I suddenly regretted ever having had agreed to this.

I was, decidedly, a person of bad decisions. It was nearly enough to have me sending a text to Octavia, a text holding a decline. An unfortunate ailment that decided to sneak up on me this Christmas. But as if sensing my hesitancy, my phone buzzed in my hand with a message from her.

 _Thanks for doing this,_ it read.

I dropped my head against the seat rest and let out a groan. But I couldn't deny that as far as distraction went, this one was working. I wondered if it was selfish using this circumstance as such, but Octavia was using my presence, too. At worst, I wasn't as selfless a person as Octavia probably thought. It was a price I was willing to pay.

Thoughts of my mom and Marcus and the mess that I lived inside were steadily being shoveled to the back of my mind. The lesser of two evils, that's what this was. The lesser one.

Pushing against every other instinct, I climbed out of my car. Bitter cold caressed my arms and I hurried into the restaurant, whose name I could not pronounce and didn't bother to try. A blast of heat chased away the bitter cold as I stepped through the door and into a place bedecked in booths and line lights that dangled from the rafters above. Wooden floors. It was probably simple to those used to eating out, but as this contested with my leftover meals and dry cereal, to me it was pretty nice.

The man at the counter stopped me, dressed up in a plain black uniform that was bold against his light hair. "Yes, how may I-?"

"Clarke, over here!" Octavia whispered, a hand flapping among an occupied booth in the corner.

"I'm with them," I told the waiter, and he tipped his head. "Of course. Right this way."

I followed him over to the booth, where Jay and Octavia sat opposing Bellamy. He didn't see me in time for me not to catch the words he was directing at his sister. "You asked Clarke to come?"

If I could've shared a word with Octavia privately just then, I would have. Because it was clear in the surprise and disapproval in Bellamy's face when he looked up and noticed me there that she hadn't told him I would be coming.

I was really getting tired of her doing that.

"That's me," I said awkwardly.

"I invited her," Octavia piped up and smiled brilliantly. I knew it was fake but Jae didn't. Because he didn't know her.

He smiled at me. "Nice to have you, then. Please, take a seat." I didn't miss that the nervous itching I'd witnessed from him was suddenly gone.

Octavia gestured to the booth opposite of her, where Bellamy sat by the wall. Her brother shot a heated glare at her, but she just held her smile as I scooted into the booth. Bellamy's shoulder brushed mine and that weird sensation shot down the length of my arm. I inched away.

"So, Clarke," began Jae. He wore nothing spectacular; just a spotted brown jacket and a white shirt. I guessed his pants were of the jean-variety and not slacks. He folded his fingers on the table and I suddenly felt as if I were in Marcus's office again. "No plans for Christmas Eve?"

I wondered if this was code for _I don't want you here._ It was hard to tell when he sounded nothing other than blatantly curious.

I blew out a long breath and shook my head. "Nope."

"What about your parents?"

I bit the inside of my cheek.

Octavia glanced between us and shook her head. "Hey, um, I'm getting hungry. Let's order." She reached over and plucked one of the menus from the small box. Her eyes met Bellamy's over the lamented sheet. "Bel, aren't you hungry?"

I risked a glance at him from the corner of my eye. His eyes seemed to be on anything but Jae, as if pretending he weren't here. "Can't say I have much of an appetite."

"I think I'll do the turkey," I said before Octavia could add anything. I pretended to be deeply invested in the list of food.

"So, Bellamy," said Jae, and I felt Bellamy's near imperceptible flinch. Something in me hardened. Was that his start to the alleged amends-making?

"How are things?" he asked on an exhale. "It's been . . . it's been a long time."

A scoff escaped Bellamy and he thrummed two fingers on the table. "Ten years," he said, and then murmured, "Best ten years of my life."

"What are you getting, Octavia?" I asked, leaning subtly over the table.

She pointed to something I couldn't see. "Roast beef. The roast beef sounds good."

"What about you, Jae?" I asked, and in my periphery I saw Bellamy look at me, as if I somehow betrayed him by talking to Jae. I didn't meet his eyes.

"We'll make it two roast beefs," Jae said, not even bothering to look at a menu. "How's school been?" He cast a look between Octavia and Bellamy.

She nodded slowly, keeping her own gaze on her brother, as if in warning. "Good. Really good."

Jae smiled, the curve of his lips seemingly foreign and unnatural. "And you, Bel?" he asked. "How's school?"

"Fine," said Bellamy, his mouth tight. "How was prison?"

I coughed and met Octavia's eyes, hoping to convey the message in mine. _This isn't working._

"Bellamy," she said, voice hung low. I felt the increasing urge to duck behind my menu and stay there. What had I been thinking in agreeing to come?

Jae cleared his throat and I resisted the urge to do the same. "I don't think that's a suitable topic for company," he said, and I didn't know whether he was referred to me or Octavia. We both fit into the category, me being a stranger, her being estranged.

I chanced a look at Bellamy, his profile something carved from stone. "Fine," he ground, practically spitting the word through his teeth.

"Octavia's an excellent student," I prattled off the first thing that came to mind, regardless of whether or not I knew it to be true. Bellamy shot me another glare, but again, I ignored it.

Jae's glacial eyes flicked to his daughter at his side. "Really?"

"I . . . think Clarke is exaggerating a little," mumbled Octavia. "But my grades are good."

Jae smiled that same foreign upturn of his mouth, the one that did little to soothe and more to aggravate.

Seeing the clenched fist crowning Bellamy's knee, I knew he was equally aggravated. But at least we were on the same side.

"That's good to hear," Jae beamed. "Education is important."

"If you have such an appreciation for school," started Bellamy, eyes like chips of coal, "then I wouldn't have expected you to have taken me out so early from mine." He shrugged as much as the tension in his shoulders would allow. "Or maybe your philosophy was a little different back then."

"Bellamy," hissed Octavia, a little clearer this time. He didn't show any sign of having heard her.

"Clarke," Jae suddenly said, clearly looking down a different avenue for subject matter. I stifled the desire to stare him down, instead rearranging my expression into one of simple curiosity. "How have your classes been?"

I licked my dry lips. "They're"—

"Clarke's a top student," interjected Octavia who was fiddling with her cloth napkin. "She's known as the Princess of Arcadia High."

I didn't correct her that that was technically no longer true.

Jae nodded as if he were impressed. "How prestigious," he said. And then, "You should work with Bellamy."

At the mention, that fist beneath the table tightened harder, knuckles going white.

Before Bellamy could snap, I said through a thin smile in a matter-of-fact voice, "Bellamy is actually an incredible student himself. I doubt I'd be any help to him."

Jae cocked an eyebrow in his son's direction. "Is that so?"

In my periphery, I saw the muscle in Bellamy's jaw feather.

"Then why aren't you some hot shot in school, too?"

I bristled at the turn of direction and once again, spoke before Bellamy had the chance. "My mom is a renown surgeon," I explained. "She used to donate funds to the school. Most of the School Board knows her."

"I see," said Jae, lips pressing into a terse line, curly hair looking oily under the small light. "And you reap the benefits."

Anger bloomed inside me at the thinly-veiled accusation. "My grades are my own," I told him.

He crossed his arms over his chest as the waiter materialized with a tray of waters. "I'm sure they are," he said, when the waiter left. "And what field are you interested in that could maintain such support?"

It was my turn to clench my teeth. "It's the student body who came up with a nickname," I said, my tone even and unruffled. "But I don't think my ambition is the factor, so much as the simple sob story of being the girl whose father and boyfriend were both killed within a year of each other that drew people's attention." I picked up my glass of ice water. " _That_ would certainly be the time one would focus on earning the teachers' favor."

I could feel Octavia's eyes on me and I swore the bones in Bellamy's fist threatened to shatter.

But Jae seemed unbothered, if not a little surprised. "I didn't mean to offend you," he said.

I actually smiled, returning my glass to the table without drinking any of it. "Believe me, you didn't. Because that would suggest I cared about your opinion. And we've only just met."

Octavia's mouth dropped open and I only felt marginally guilty for abandoning her. Most of my attention though, was on the man next to me, his anger singeing the length of my sleeve. Impulsively, I reached beneath the table and planted my hand over his fist. My nerves jumped at the contact, but I kept perfectly still.

I saw his eyes flicker to my face in my periphery before glancing down at our joined hands. He didn't move his away until the food arrived.

"Your mom, Clarke," said Jae as he began cutting up his roast beef. "She makes good money? Surgeons have high wages, I hear."

Despite current circumstance, I wanted to defend my mom, tell him exactly how hard she worked for that money. I might've had issues with her current personal life and the lies involved, but I knew what she put into her job. Everything, down to her sweat and blood. But to keep the atmosphere friendly, I just said, "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

I hoped that was the end of it. But as I was astutely knowledgeable on, we often did not get what we wanted.

"And your dad?" he continued. "What did he do, before?"

Before. Before he died, and couldn't do it anymore.

"Environmental scientist," I said robotically.

"Probably don't need that insurance," Jae added passively after swallowing. "Did it go to the school, too?"

It took me longer than the others to catch on to what he was saying. What he was talking about. My father's _life_ insurance. The smell of gravy was suddenly cloying.

"Dad," mumbled Octavia uncomfortably, either from the situation or the title she was giving him. "You shouldn't be talking about this."

"We're just discussing money," said Jae with a shrug. "A privilege you kids didn't have growing up."

"Yeah, there were a lot of privileges we didn't have growing up," Bellamy hissed at my side.

Jae paused in his eating, fork hanging from his hand as he looked up. "I did what I could."

"You certainly did. And that was nothing at all."

"We didn't have the money," he said, and this time there was a bite in Jae's tone. "If we'd gotten more from your mother's policy"—

Bellamy stood up so fast my water glass shuddered. "Don't," he snapped, towering over Jae, "Don't talk about mom. Not here. Not ever. And especially not to me."

Jae raised his palms up, as if surrendering. "Fine, fine. I'm just trying to tell you. Money matters in this world, son. It matters about as much as it takes to earn."

"And what did you spend yours on?" challenged Bellamy. "Liquor. Booze. Drugs. Yeah, that's some investment, _Dad."_

The last word echoed around the table and Jae wasn't even given the opportunity to reply before Bellamy gestured for me to slide out of the booth. "This dinner's over."

"It hasn't even been paid for yet," said Jae, as if that were enough to keep Bellamy planted there. He quickly motioned to the waiter who returned with the total in a navy check folder.

Jae padded down the front pockets of his jacket and pulled out a black wallet. He opened it up and thumbed a pair of bills I thought was a one and a ten. A few agonizing seconds fell away until, with a sigh, Jae's gaze met Bellamy's. "I seem to be a little short."

Those hands found their way into fists again. Bellamy scoffed. "Why am I not surprised?" He shook his head. "Find a way to deal with it yourself."

"Now just hold on a second," said Jae. Slowly, those blue eyes, so similar and yet so unlike Octavia's, found mine. "You could afford to lose a few dollars, right?"

I saw the fire light in Bellamy's eyes, dancing on the coals of his pupils. "Are you out of your mind?" he hissed and I felt his rage mounting, threatening to let those fists fly. "What gives you any right to ask her that? _You_ wanted this dinner, so _you_ can pay for it."

"I'd love to," said Jae. "I really would. But it's not as if I've had much time to earn money. People aren't exactly jumping at the chance to hire someone on parole."

Those hands were starting to shake and I saw the fear growing in Octavia's eyes. This was headed down a dangerous path, the one Octavia had been wishing to avoid, and as much as I wanted to tell Bellamy exactly where to hit to inflict the most damage, I squared my shoulders and looked back to Jae.

"That's fine," I said. "I'll pay it."

Bellamy whirled around, eyes slicing to mine. "Are you-? No you're not. You're not giving him a _cent_ , Clarke."

It sounded like a warning, but I never did heed his much. I pulled my bag into my lap and dug out my own wallet. "It's my money, Bellamy. I'll decide where I spend it."

"Forget it, I'll pay," he said, almost vehemently. "Just put that back."

I looked over at him, incredulous.

The thought of Bellamy giving his money to Jae was infinitely worse than me giving him mine and I yanked out three twenties and grabbed the check folder before Bellamy could.

He let out a curse and reached for it. "Clarke—"

I looked at him, hard, and leaned in, just close enough to say without being overheard, "He's taken enough from you."

Then I tucked the money into the blue folder in time for the waiter to swing by a moment later and collect it from me.

I slid out of the booth and slowly, as if his soles were weighted by iron, Bellamy followed. He suddenly seemed resigned and for a second, I didn't recognize the expression on his face. The haunted look in his eyes.

Shame. That's what it was.

But then he blinked, and it was gone.

He moved over to Jae and motioned Octavia out. She listened. But then Bellamy stopped at the edge of the seat, Jae having yet to stand from the booth. Bellamy's presence in the narrow space didn't allow him to, and the words that came from him weren't ones of fire, but ones of ice and steel. "Don't ever ask anything from her again."

Jae peered up at his son. "Pride can make a man do dangerous things, Bellamy. It would do you well to loosen your chains some."

Bellamy leaned down, so close his hand touched the tabletop. "And it would do us all well to see you back in them."


	31. Author's Note

**I'm coming, Guys. This story doesn't like me right now. I don't know why; I thought I was good to it. I'm trying to figure out a way how I'll go about ending this in a handful of chapters, but the characters are rebelling against me. I have half of the next chapter written, but if you have any ideas as to what you want to see, please let me know. And I know it's a super slow-burn, but I kind of wanted the relationship to have a solid foundation because I think it brings more meaning to the characters and makes you care about them more, first as individuals, and then as a unified front. So lemme know. I am NOT stopping this story just as I am NOT stopping the 99 which I am also way behind on but I am finishing both if it is the last thing I do, I swear.**


	32. The Stars, My Destination

**This took. Forever. Sorry. I was really struggling here. I fear these characters don't like me anymore. But I think I know how I want it to end and the climax and the overall moral and all that fun stuff. It's there. I've gotz it, Guys. This chapter I guess is more filler, but it's also pretty important as it just helps mend some things before other stuff comes and messes things up again. XD I'm not even gonna try and guess how many chapters I have left because I honestly don't know. I hate stories where the couple finally kisses and then it ends, so I won't do that to you guys. Anyway, please review!**

* * *

Bellamy stormed out of the restaurant with Octavia in tow. I followed close behind, resisting the urge to look back on Jae who we'd left back in the booth. I hadn't heard any indication of him making a move to leave just yet.

It was probably his wisest decision all evening.

When the doors opened, the brisk chill hit me square in the chest, driving its way beneath my sleeves and dragging across my bare skin. We were in the parking lot when Bellamy suddenly stopped. Behind him, I recognized the white Honda. I chewed on my lower lip and tried to think of warm thoughts just as Bellamy turned to Octavia. "Get in the car, O."

His sister looked at him uncertainly. "Aren't you coming?"

"I'll be there in a minute." He tossed her the keys.

Only when she was settled in the car and out of earshot did Bellamy turn back to me, lips pressed in a thin line. "You had no right to do that," he said, and there was a distinct edge to his voice.

I looked at him in surprise. "What? Pay?"

"Yeah, Clarke. Pay. Step in for me. Babysit me. I'm not some kid anymore! I don't need anyone's protection." He tone turned mocking over that last word, like I'd insulted him somehow.

I clenched my teeth, feeling the cold ebb some over my own rising anger that was giving way to adrenaline. "Would you have rather put Octavia in the middle of that?" I challenged, "Have her be the one to play referee?"

He carded a hand through his hair, so forcefully I thought he must've torn out a few strands. "Oh, is that what you were doing? Playing referee and keeping me in place as he's criticizing your grades and your parents? While you're giving him your money?" Bellamy scoffed and twisted away from me.

I took a step toward him. "Is that all this is really about? That I paid for his dinner? You want me to apologize for it?"

He whirled back around. "Yeah. Actually I do. Because that man is not your problem. I get your mentality to fix everything and everyone around you but you can't. I'm not a charity case, so the last thing I want to see is your money in his hands as if I don't have a dime to my name."

I stared at him attentively, holding onto my anger with clenched fists. I wished I had pockets to shove them in. "I'm not going to apologize for bruising your ego," I replied bluntly. "You say you don't want that man in your life so you should have nothing to prove to him. Not your grades, not your reputation, and certainly not your money."

He scrubbed his hands down his face. "It's more than that!"

"Then what?" My own voice raised in volume. "What else is it?"

"I don't want you having anything to do with him!" he exploded. "I don't want you tied to him in any way, whether that be money or association, I don't care. He takes, Clarke! That is what that man does. It's what he will do, however much time passes, and I don't want you near him!" Bellamy shook his head and his voice suddenly dropped. "I don't want you near him," he repeated.

I blew out a slow breath. "So you're allowed to protect others when they need it, when I need it, but I can't do the same for you?"

He seemed taken off guard by the question before quickly shrugging it off. Almost reluctantly, his eyes wandered back to the restaurant, and I could hear the question in them. I knew who they were looking for. "I told you; I don't need it."

I shook my head in disbelief, not buying it. There was not wanting something, and then there was not understanding what it was that you needed. "You're so used to protecting your sister," I said slowly, "ever since you were a little kid. You protected her from the person that's supposed to love her unconditionally." I sighed sadly. "But no one protected you. And I know you think it doesn't matter anymore. That it's too late, and maybe it is. But I'm going to do what it takes if it means being there for you, whether you want it or not. Protection . . . support . . . it's not a privilege. It's something people deserve, a something you were unfairly deprived of." I shrugged. "So yeah, maybe it _is_ late. But it's the best I've got."

I waited for the rebuttal. For our usual bickering to gain traction as it so often did. But Bellamy didn't say anything. He stood stoically before me, uncharacteristically still and even more uncharacteristically quiet. His eyes, seemingly small galaxies with the broken light illuminating from the restaurant at my back, bored into mine.

That was when my heart started pounding again.

I quickly shook myself, and my gaze snapped off from his. I cleared my throat. "Now, if we're done with this, I'm gonna go because it's kind of freezing out here and I am currently jacketless." I turned to leave.

"Clarke?"

I stopped and glanced back, just long enough to watch Bellamy as he stood there for a moment, seeming as if he were debating about something. Then he was pulling off his jacket. Before I could object, he was beside me, draping it over my shoulders and fumbling with the collar, not meeting my gaze. "We really haven't . . . spoken much. How'd it go with your mom? Did you ever talk to her?"

Grateful for the subject change, I nodded, feeling it oddly difficult to breathe in that moment. "Yup, and not much since."

He frowned. "Did she lie?"

"No, she told me the truth, which so happened to be the confession of the lie I caught her in. The details really aren't important."

He looked up, eyes suddenly very close to me. His hands were still on the jacket and I felt trapped between them both. The light from the restaurant snagged in his hair and crackled in his eyes like embers, lit with an intensity I couldn't break away from. As unfathomable as the darkness between the stars.

Bellamy abruptly stepped back, shattering the close proximity. He let his grip on the jacket fall and shoved his hands into his jean pockets. "You should talk to her," he said thickly.

I swallowed, trying to find my voice again. Trying not to wonder why it was so hard to. "I, uh, I'm not sure it's the right time," I said quietly, my previous courage gone. The issue with my mom wasn't about courage though; it was about forgiveness. What I needed was the courage to forgive.

Bellamy looked at me intently. The intensity was still there, but it wasn't as vivid with a yard or so spanning between us. "Your mom won't always be there, Clarke," he said and, more solemnly, "You may be able to attest to losing a dad, but I know what it's like losing a mom. Talk to her."

I didn't know what to say to that, reeling at the small reference to his mother. After seeing it with Jae, I knew what a sensitive subject it was.

As if reading my mind, Bellamy's gaze drifted from me over my shoulder, to where I knew my car was parked. "You should . . . turn on the heater when you get inside," he said simply. "You can return the jacket after break."

I eyed him inquisitively, very aware of the stuttering organ in my chest that was starting off the red alarms in my mind. A warning. I glanced back at my car. "You sure?"

"It's not the first time I've been without that jacket."

I nodded slowly,feeling like I should refuse his offer. But I was too eager to go. To put more distance between us. I didn't want to stay here any longer, not with my heart rebelling as if it were trying to escape the confines of my chest. Something was happening and I didn't understand it. Didn't want to.

I thought I heard Bellamy tell me Merry Christmas, but I was already hurrying down a few available lots over to where I'd parked. I jumped inside and started the car, doing as he'd suggested by blasting the heat. Then I let myself take in a big gulp of much needed air as I tried to rationalize the still pounding of my heart. _Adrenaline,_ I thought. _Anger._ Maybe it was just the surprise of it all.

But I knew that was a lie. I wasn't mad. I wasn't angry. I was scared. I was scared at the jacket on my back. At the smell of pine and smoke that steadily began filling up the car. That I noticed it. That it took me ripping off the jacket and turning down the heater for my heart to calm. That it calmed, simply because Bellamy wasn't standing there next to me anymore.

* * *

We had no Christmas tree.

Not this year. Not last year. When morning came, I trudged down to our empty living room that was sadly devoid of twinkling lights and the smell of pine I once looked so forward to. The mantel over the fire place was bare. If anyone came into this house, they would think it was just any other morning and not Christmas.

My dad and I used to be the ones to go on the search for the perfect tree. Full but not too full. It was a requirement of mine that it always had to be taller than me, so I'd have to reach to put on the topper every time. Finn liked to help set up the yard with lights, even though I was terrible at it and wound up just strewing blinking blue bulbs over the grass and calling it good.

When dad died, we stopped getting trees.

With Finn gone too, I had no one to help me with the lights.

So the living room saw neither this year. It was bare and felt somewhat foreign, but I hadn't really even given this season much thought, between everything else. I'd picked up Mom's gift last month. Nothing big, just a new pair of shoes because her white ones were stained and wearing through the soles. They weren't good for her feet, and doctors were always on their feet.

The thought felt strained though, giving her a gift in the middle of a silence I'd declared. But after hearing Bellamy last night, it seemed almost petty of me. _"Your mom won't always be there, Clarke._ _"_

He was right. I should know. I was becoming very intimate with the reality of death, and how easily it could come and snatch precious things away from you. I wondered what I was gaining from keeping my mom at a distance. If anything, I should be trying to salvage what family I still had, not push the last of it away. It wouldn't be easy. It wouldn't be instantaneous. But forgiveness needed a starting point, and I was trying to be willing. However convincing that sounded.

But I knew one thing was for certain, and that was that nothing was worth the alternative.

So when I found Mom standing in the kitchen, in a ratty grey shirt and pajama pants, I resisted the urge to turn around. _"You may be able to attest to losing a dad, but I know what it's like losing a mom. Talk to her."_ With those haunting words chiming in my head, I pushed through, shoving thoughts of Marcus Kane as far from me as mental distance would allow. I glanced at my mom, who set down her mug at my approach.

There was a question in her eyes as she spoke. _Can we talk?_ They seemed to ask _._ What she said was,"Merry Christmas, Sweetheart."

I tried for a smile. Some sort of answer. "Merry Christmas." _Yes_.

Though her hair's state seemed as precarious as her shirt's, tied back in a messy pony tail, she smiled back at me, as if I'd just given her a gift.

She hastily gestured to her mug. "Want some coffee?"

I nodded and she snatched up a black mug from the cupboard and poured me a generous amount. I took it from her, letting the porcelain warm my cold fingers.

Taking it as an offering, I watched as Mom quickly tucked a stray hair behind her ear and walked over to the kitchen table where I now took notice of a package, poorly wrapped in silver paper with a green bow at its center. Mom looked at it before looking back up at me. "You have a right to be angry with me, Clarke. I should have-" She cut herself off, like she didn't want to say too much. There was a pause as she took a deep breath, and pinned me with a serious stare. "I should have told you. And I'm sorry. For all of it. This is . . . " She pushed the package over to me. "This is just something I thought you should have."

I moved over to the table where the package was and gingerly placed my hands over it. The paper crinkled beneath my fingers.

Mom never could wrap well. It was an old joke in our family, trying to guess who wrapped what. It was a game mom's obvious crude tape jobs were always destined to lose.

I stared at it for a moment, lost in a moment from the past. Then I was wondering if this was my cue to run upstairs and grab my gift to her, but I decided I wasn't quite there yet on the forgiveness spectrum, and mumbled, "I got you shoes," instead.

She blinked, seemingly surprised before smiling back at me. "Thank you, Clarke. Mine are looking a little sad these days, aren't they?"

I knew of all the things her shoes touched and managed a smirk. "Just a little."

Despite the tense air, she managed a quiet laugh, no more than a smile with noise.

So I wouldn't have to try and think up something else to say, I started unwrapping her gift, removing the bow and peeling back the tape, taking her gaze as the okay to do so. She always used way more than necessary and I had to flick my fingers to free some pieces that had stuck to me.

I didn't know what to expect. I wasn't one for jewelry or clothes. Medical books were once a big go-to, and though this was too small to be a textbook, it was, indeed, a book.

An old one, judging by the yellowed cover of a man in a space suit. Embossed on the top was the title _The Stars, My Destination._ I looked at her questioningly.

"It was your father's favorite," she explained, and gestured for me to open the cover.

I did.

I was greeted by handwriting on the inner front page, and didn't have to ask to know it was Mom's.

 _For my stargazer. I love you with all my heart. -October 19, 2002._

Emotion clogged my throat and I swallowed in an attempt to dislodge it.

Mom reached over and placed her hand over mine. "I know not telling you was wrong. And I know it hurt you. But I don't ever want you to feel like you have to question how much I loved your father. It's one reason why it took me so long to tell you; why I kept putting it off. Because of course I loved him, Clarke. I will always love him." She took a moment and I caught the glaze over her eyes. I could count on one hand how many times I'd seen my mom shed tears. "I wasn't looking for anything after he died," she went on. "I didn't think there was going to be anyone else. I lost half of myself that day, Clarke. I nearly lost you, too. But some things . . . just happen, Honey. And Marcus-" I tried not to flinch at the mention of him-"helped me with that. I had to relearn life without your Dad and there are days still when I don't want to. And you . . . "

Her hand tightened over mine, but her voice didn't waver. "You lost more than anyone should ever have to lose. But you're so strong, Clarke. Stronger than anyone I've ever met, and I know you'll make it through this. Someday. I don't doubt that both your Dad and Finn would want you to. They want you to be happy. They want you to live as bright and boldly as you can, because your heart's too big, Clarke. It needs to love." Her hand rose to my cheek and I didn't try to push it away. "And maybe that scares you," she murmured, "Maybe it terrifies you, and it'll probably make you think you're doing something wrong. But, and this is important, Clarke, don't let your fear keep you from loving, whether that's your family or your friends, or even yourself." She took a shaky breath. "It's not our job to live for those we've lost. It's our job to live."

I didn't realize my hands were shaking until then, and I quickly tightened my hold over the book to keep her from noticing. A hollow feeling resonated inside me as the truth of her words sunk in. Not just their meaning, but the implication that came with them, too. How my mother loved a man but lost him. How she found herself moving on without knowing it. How she might have started feeling things that seemed wrong to feel in the first place.

I wanted to be angry at her for it. I wanted to tell her it wasn't okay. That it wasn't fair and made every memory of my parents lose some grain of truth to them. But then I remembered last night;

The phantom pound of my heart.

Feeling things that seemed wrong to feel.

That I felt them, not four months after Finn.

 _Not four months after Finn._ And I was suddenly hit with an entirely different realization, as I looked back at my mom. It struck with the intensity of brown eyes and refused to go, locking itself away inside me and circling in a dizzying spiral round and round my head.

 _We are the same._


	33. AN 2

I'm so sorry this is taking so long. I'm trying to work out the next chapter and there's just no idea coming to me at the moment. Suggestions as to what you guys think should happen or what you'd like to see happen would be very well received!


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